Doors
by Mrs.Dickens713
Summary: Wedding Bells for Carson and Hughes
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: After at least one year of obsessively reading and re-reading all the CarsonxHughes fics I could find, I've now gotten the courage to post one of my own. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery; apologies if I've copied any of these wonderful authors too closely. Thanks to the lovely and generous Kouw who took a look at the rough draft and gave me some much needed feedback and encouragement. I should also add that I do not own these characters. If I did, they would get up to all kinds of shenanigans. Thanks and I hope you enjoy it!**

Doors

The morning is crisp and clear as Mr. and Mrs. Carson make their way to their new cottage, leisurely, almost reluctantly. Mrs. Carson, Elsie thinks. That will take some getting used to. Of course they've been lumped together for years, treated as a de facto couple, but this new arrangement won't feel comfortable right away. They've always had their separate spaces, their own private retreats. Now they will have to learn to live together. Her face heats as she thinks how closely they will have to live together. The cottage has only one bedroom, only one bed. During their brief courtship, she put all thoughts of that bed out of her mind. She is a farm girl, so she knows. Of course she knows. She has lived her life as she is certain he has lived his. But. The two of them, together. Her arm, threaded through his, tightens against him reflexively, and he glances down at her, a question in his eyes.

"Everything alright, Mrs. Carson?" It rolls so smoothly off his tongue. Of course he would have no trouble adapting to her new status. He is, after all, attenuated to status, to the vagaries of rank and position. Well, two could play at that game.

"Of course, Mr. Carson. And why wouldn't it be?" This won't do at all. Now she is arch, sarcastic. She must try to soften, to dull the sharp edge of her tongue if they are to live together reasonably happily. She shakes herself. Looks up at him and smooths her face into a gentle smile. "Why wouldn't it be?"

He grunts in response, not unkindly, and lengthens their stride along the path.

*CE*

They enter the cottage, and it feels strange, alien. They've been here many times over the few weeks leading up to their marriage. There were trips to supervise the cleaning, to stock the kitchen. They had been asked to select a few pieces from storage and those had to be arranged and re-arranged to suit. Their few personal belongings had to be carried over. It's not as if they'd never seen the place. But it is uncomfortable, awkward. It's not home yet. Perhaps it never will be. Charles removes his coat, goes to hang it up, stops to take hers as well.

"Tea, Mr. Carson?" Tea will give her something to do with her hands.

"Yes, please," he calls from the other room. "And you really must try to call me Charles."

She has no answer for that.

This is ridiculous, she thinks. I'm a grown woman, more than a grown woman, very nearly an old woman. I've spent the better part of my life with this man. This will be no different. Yet she fumbles around the kitchen, banging drawers and slamming cabinets. Nervous, antsy, impatient. What if? _What if he reaches for me? What if he doesn't?_

Charles spends an inordinate amount of time tending to their coats. Shaking each one thoroughly, to remove any wrinkles. Putting his coat away first, then putting hers ahead, then behind. He lets out a long sigh. This isn't what he had imagined. He had imagined, very possibly foolishly imagined, that she would lean into him a bit, that she would return his kiss at the ceremony's end eagerly. Decorously, of course, but that there would be, within that kiss, a hint of things to come. Another sigh, deeper still. He is not a romantic man, he did not believe her to be marrying him for any other reason than companionship, but. But. She had not balked at the sight of the double bed he had chosen for them, his own embarrassed longings hidden beneath that façade of implacability. But now, she is awkward and prickly, obviously uncomfortable. My God, the look in her eyes as they were walking along the path. He had seen, then, that she was anxious. And what was he to do about it?

*CE*

He rounds the corner as she is bringing out the tea tray. He wants to put her at ease, so he reaches for the tray. The cups rattle in their saucers. The sound is deafening against the quiet.

"Careful, then!" Too sharp, much too sharp. He smiles down at her, calm, and gently tugs the tray out of her hands and sets it on the table. He nods for her to sit as he begins to pour for them. "I could," she fumbles, tries to soften. "You really don't have to."

"Nonsense," Charles says, briskly. "We've had a busy morning." He smiles at her again, and the kindness in his eyes nearly undoes her. She sits, waits for him to hand her a cup.

He busies himself with the preparation of their tea, focuses on the placement of the cups, the precise filling of each, then the accoutrements of each. She, naturally, takes hers plain, with just the slightest hint of lemon. His is more complicated, definitely sweeter. After an age, it seems, he finishes their tea, hands her the cup. He sits next to her in an awkward, uncomfortable silence. They glance at one another, sometimes furtively, sometimes they catch one another. They sip their tea.

Elsie's cup rattles in her saucer and she lets out an exasperated sigh. "This is ridiculous!" She puts her cup down on the side table, hard, and takes the tea cup from Charles' hand, places it roughly on the table. "We'll never be able to be easy with one another if we don't. "

Charles is confused, anxious. "I..what? If we don't what?" Elsie sighs, moves in closer, takes his face in her hands and kisses him. Softly at first, so softly he could almost believe it to be a dream. He reaches for her, tightens his grip to assure himself of her presence. She pulls back, frees herself from his grasp and stands. Charles is scarlet with embarrassment, believing he has frightened her, believing that she has seen his need and been repulsed by it. She reaches out a hand.

"Come along then." Her brogue is thick, thicker than he's heard in years, since she first came to Downton, and the look in her eyes is a curious mix of bravado and reticence. He takes her hand and she pulls him up, leading him to their bedroom.

*CE*

Now he is well and truly nervous. What should he do? Should he take charge of this? Should he be in control? Shouldn't he be in control? He watches her in helpless confusion. Her back is to him as she turns the counterpane down. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had made plans, careful plans, worked and reworked each night as he lay in bed imagining what their first hours as a married couple would be. She would prepare a simple tea, perhaps they would eat another slice or three of wedding cake, then a nice leisurely afternoon. He would read the paper; she would read a novel, knit. After a light supper, he would take her by the elbow and gently, tenderly escort her to their room. She would be nervous and he would be gallant, courtly. He would wait patiently as she changed into her nightclothes. It would be he who initiated…she turns toward him abruptly.

"What, what are you doing?" Maddening. Infuriating. Why must he act like an inexperienced schoolboy?

"I'm turning down the bedclothes."

"But it's the middle of the day." He's a damned fool to protest. He wants her, of course he wants her, but this is not how he imagined it, not how he planned it.

She takes a step towards him. "I know that, Mr. Carson." She stands before him, the lift of her chin giving lie to the apprehension in her eyes. She begins to unbutton her dress.

"But, we can't…not now," he sputters, "not in the middle of the day." _Why am I still talking?_

She sighs. "Of course we can, Mr. Carson. We can do whatever we like. We're married now. And retired," she adds, as an afterthought. She takes a step closer and reaches for his hand.

*CE*

Her cheeks are burning, burning because of her boldness, her cheapness, her mother would say. Cheap married or not. She can't make herself care enough about propriety to stop, though. There's always been attraction between them, if she's honest. Hidden, unspoken, but there nonetheless. Only a whisper from either of them and it could have gone this way years before. In the months since her illness, he had not shied away from her touch, allowing her to reach for his hand, to place a hand on his arm. And he had been less reluctant to touch her. It seemed as though he looked for excuses to touch her. His proposal of marriage had been a bit dry, yes; he'd fumbled on about retiring, caring for one another, their great friendship. He seemed almost surprised when she accepted. And yet, once they'd decided to marry, she had seen some spark, some need in his eyes when they parted of an evening. They'd only had to wait three weeks for the banns; barely enough time for them to sort out the end one life and the beginning of a new one. There had been nothing untoward, improper between them during those weeks, not even close. The tension of waiting for him to approach her became nearly unbearable. But now, there's no reason to wait a moment longer, particularly when waiting is no longer necessary.

Suddenly it is quiet, so very, very quiet. He's not breathing and he can't hear her breathing. The blood is rushing in his ears, obscenely loud against the silence. She's taken his hand to her mouth and kissed it. She looks up at him, and the fear and longing in her eyes electrifies him. He gathers her tightly in his arms and kisses her hard and fierce. He knows he should be gentle, he knows he is pressing her too tightly, too close, but just one more minute. One minute more and he will release her, but her arms are wound around his neck and she is pressing herself to him just as tightly as he is pulling her in. He breaks away, just for a moment, to see her face. She is smiling, almost laughing, lit up with joy because she knows, now, she knows exactly how he feels and it is bubbling out of her. Soon he is laughing with her, fumbling with her buttons, letting her ease his suit coat off.

"Your hair," he says, "will you?" He trails off, embarrassed to ask her to take her hair down. She looks at him with a knowing, teasing glance, surprising him, _Has she done this before?_, and she begins to pull the pins out of her hair, slowly, almost seductively. The beautiful long length of her hair coming down out of its tight knot arouses him and for the first time he thinks he won't be able to last. This will all be over too quickly. He thinks of church, the time he was so ill with the flu, he tries to say the alphabet backwards. Nothing helps. He reaches out to finger a lock. He smells something fresh and clean: lavender, lemons? He kisses her again, slowly, tenderly.

They make short work of the rest of their clothes. She unbuttons his shirt, smooths his vest up and over his chest and head. He has trouble with her corset, the ribbons, the tiny eyelets. She helps him, eases out of her corset, lets it fall to the floor. Now she's in her shift; he's in his trousers. She sits on the bed and tugs at the laces of her boots. He kicks his shoes off and unbuttons his pants. She focuses on her boots, loosening the knots, easing her feet out, looking anywhere else. Why has she gone shy all of a sudden? She's no young lass. Of course, she's not a woman of the world, either. _Look up. Look at him, you stupid cow!_ She finishes fussing with her boots and eases herself back into the bed, careful to leave enough room for him, careful not to make eye contact. He climbs in after her and lets out a long, shuddering breath. She turns to look at him and she is surprised to see love and need and fear in his eyes. This, it seems, is what she's been waiting for. She presses herself against him. He rolls on top of her.

There is a knock at the door.

*CE*

They spring apart, electric.

"Who could that be?" Elsie hisses. Gods damn whoever it is straight to hell, even if it is a Sunday.

Charles is skittish, fumbling around for his shorts.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting out of bed to answer the door."

Elsie is rigid with disbelief. "You're what?" Another knock at the door: louder, more insistent. Charles rolls out of bed.

"I'm going to answer the door. " He manages to look every inch Charles Carson, butler, in spite of standing in his shorts attempting to hop into his pants.

"You can't answer the door right now. We were…it was…you _cannot_ answer the door."

Now the façade is cracking. "I must answer the door, Mrs. Hughes. Mrs. Carson." He grimaces, angry with himself for the mistake. "If I don't, they'll wonder what we're doing."

"Let them wonder," Elsie snorts. "We are married, after all."

"But it's the middle of the day. It's..it's...," he tugs at his ear, searching for the one word that will convey his embarrassment at being caught out like this with Elsie without angering her so much that he will never be caught out like this with her again.

"Yes?" She draws the word out as long as possible.

"I don't know," he barks. "It's not dignified."

She rares back, ready to argue. "Hallooo," a familiar voice rings out. "Anybody home?"

"Molesley," Charles hisses.

*CE*

"Whatever he's after can wait," Elsie says firmly. Charles continues to struggle into his pants. "Charles," she says, in that voice that brooks no opposition, "Charles, Mr. Molesley can wait." He grunts, looking for his vest. Molesley knocks again.

"Very well; I'll tend to him myself." Elsie shoves the bedclothes over, gets out of bed and walks to the wardrobe.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm getting my dressing gown, Mr. Carson. I am going to take care of Mr. Molesley."

"What do you mean? You're not going to the door in your…you can't, you musn't," Charles splutters.

"Mr. Carson," she turns and gives him that look, that arch, imperious, stern look that he never knows how to return. Only now, of all things, he finds himself aroused. This is the least appropriate time, with Molesley outside, gods damn the man and his wretched timing. Elsie's voice breaks into his thoughts. "Either you get back in bed or I go to the door in my dressing gown."

He stares at her for a long, hard moment. She looks so lovely with her hair down and there is a high color in her cheeks , color he likes to think he put there. What had she said before? They were married now. And retired. He drops his pants, kicks them to the side and takes a step toward her.

"Whatever he's after can wait, Mrs. Carson." He takes her in his arms and smiles. "All of it can wait."

*CE*

They lay together in a happy, tangled heap.

"Everything alright, Mrs. Carson?"

"Of course, Mr. Carson. Why wouldn't it be?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and favorited Doors. This was originally a one-shot, but I got some very kind requests to continue this story. I see now how addictive reviews are. Thanks for everything, and I hope you enjoy this next bit about two characters that I do not own, but love dearly.**

He stares at her from the corner of his eye; she's softly, beautifully lit in the firelight, sitting in the club chair, knitting, darning a pair of socks, whatever it is busy women do to pass the time quietly, usefully. It should feel so natural, so right. She had said things would be easy between them, that they could be easy with one another as soon as…he feels his face flush just to think of it. It's so very difficult to be natural around her now; not now that he has discovered the private island of her. Not now that he has seen her (in broad daylight!), felt the softness of her skin beneath his, traced her curves with his fingertips. It's all he can do to keep from touching her now. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, turns the pages of his book absentmindedly. She looks up and smiles, a quick, sudden thing. His heart clenches at the sight. He'd never thought to see such a loving, unguarded smile from her. He'd never dared to hope she could feel anything more than mild exasperation for him.

Flustered at being caught out, he returns to aimlessly skimming the pages of a book he's read far too many times.

No, things have not been easy between them since that afternoon, not by a long chalk. Acting on his desire, their desire, has made their life together so much richer, but so much more difficult. For him, anyway. She seems to have bloomed in some lovely, secret, indefinable way. Of course she was so very beautiful to him before, but her beauty was understated, proper, correct, a marble bust in a dim, shadowy library. Now she is bursting with color and light and it's not only he who notices. The greengrocer tips his hat to her in the street, something far too knowing and smug in his glance. The vicar holds her hand a little too long after Sunday's interminable service. And Dr. Clarkson, that old fraud. He gets very Scottish around Elsie these days.

And what is worse, he finds himself wondering. It's become a bit of an obsession, really. Who was he? Who was the man, or men, curse the thought, that Elsie had known? Because of course she had to have known at least one man before him. The collar round his neck tightens. It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't matter at all, really. He had known a few women, a very few, during his life, but that was different. Wasn't it? Damn and blast this collar. He looks at her again, covertly. He has a feeling he knows what his wife would say to that. And it had been so lovely, such a beautiful, loving moment between them. He knew then that he truly loved her, had always loved her, and he suspects that she felt the same. They've been together since, several times since in fact. He cannot keep from touching her, especially in the night when it's dark and she is so close and soft and warm. And yet he knows, or at least suspects, that she has known another man before him. She was too responsive, too eager. He shakes himself. It's poisonous to have thoughts like these, then, absurd to be jealous. He's certain she doesn't hold his experiences against him. But then it's different for a man. Isn't it? He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He knows exactly what his wife would say to that.

He sighs. He doesn't want to hold this against her, he doesn't want to think of it at all and yet it's all he can think of now. Another man holding her, loving her in that special, private way. He thought, he **expected** her to have reserved herself. While it's true he hadn't been chaste the entire time he's known her, he'd only broken faith a handful of times since she came to Downton. Only those few times in London when the need to be close to someone, anyone (_her_) grew too great a burden to carry and he'd sought solace through the only means available to him. He'd never want to confess that to her. But the damnable thing is that she would accept his behavior, excuse it even, because she loves him. He loves her, terribly, and it's making him stingy, possessive, angry. He feels cheated.


	3. Chapter 3

She watches him from the kitchen window as he potters about the back garden. He's taken to doing that lately, just after breakfast. Something has changed. She can feel the tension radiating from him. He's uncomfortable, ill at ease, exactly what she'd hoped to avoid. She had suspected that he would ask her to marry him; there were so many false starts after her illness, but she could feel his eyes following her, she could sense what he wasn't ready to reveal. She knew before he did, and she knew that she would accept. More than that, she had been happy to accept, happy to become his wife, to be able to unabashedly take care of him, rather than hiding her feelings behind a façade of position and responsibility. She had known, had always known, the deep reservoir of kindness that lay underneath the posturing, beneath the rigid adherence to duty and tradition. She had expected that marriage would soften him (some), would give him a safe, private place to reveal that gentle, loving spirit she knew he possessed. Hadn't he twisted himself inside out trying to anticipate what she needed, what would be best for her, when she was ill? Hadn't he gone beyond the boundaries of friends and colleagues by joyfully singing his relief at the news of her good health? Of course he'd had to backpedal, to make hurtful, deprecatory comments in a vain attempt to rebuild the chink in his armor. But she had known, so she continued to reach out to him in spite of (because of ) his gruff exterior, his inflexible determination to stay the course. She'd wanted to chip away at that small crack, to open it further and let some light in, some joy. And she had succeeded.

It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to reach out to him that morning. Hadn't she hidden too, just as well as he? Hadn't she denied herself, ruthlessly stamping out the embers of desire that he brought out in her? She knows how important propriety is to him, the appearance of it as well as the reality. She knows how difficult it is for him to accept change of any kind, no matter that this change in their circumstances could bring them greater joy together than they had ever known apart. And she had felt that joy begin to bubble to the surface. She had no words to describe, no way to even broach the subject of what lay between them as husband and wife. It was more, so much more than she imagined. She needs it and she can feel that he needs it too. They've hardly gone a night without…well. She gives herself a shake. Enough of that. She can tell, too, that he is troubled by it, by his need for it. Perhaps by her need for it as well. That was a sobering thought. He has always had certain ideas about women: rules for correct behavior, appropriate appearances. His sensibilities have always been easily offended. She had thought she could lay down her armor, that she could be Elsie again. Not Mrs. Hughes, not even Mrs. Carson, but Elsie: belly laughs and green and rain and joy and love, real physical love. She hadn't felt that, hadn't allowed herself to feel that, in so many years. Decades, she silently corrects herself. Not since she was a young lass. She straightens. Now she begins to sense what the problem is between them. Her heart clenches at the thought that she has disappointed him, has displeased him in some fundamental way that cannot be forgiven. She doesn't want to hold this against him; she doesn't want to relive the past. They've so little time left, really. So little time for talking, being, loving. They should stay in this moment; they've earned it, surely.

Slowly, imperceptibly, she feels anger like the whisper of a match against flint. What right had he to make her feel small, shamed at having taken what little joy there was to be had? She hadn't been careless, indiscriminate, loose. She'd been young and felt what she believed to be love. It was honest and true and she'd not repent of it now. Not even for him. She'd counseled scores of girls under her care over the years, taught them to be careful, to be discriminating, to be as sure as possible. And never, never, never to cross that invisible line between downstairs and up. She'd lost only one girl that way. After all this time, after all they'd been through together, after what she knew in her bones they meant to one another, to feel that what she brought to him, to them, to their marriage bed, was improper, wrong? It was too much. She felt cheated. And very, very angry.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I apologize for the delay. I just couldn't quit tinkering. One more chapter to go, probably with a bump in the ratings. Thanks for all the wonderful encouragement. I really appreciate it!**

By the time he comes in for lunch, that raging fire has burned down to an icy calm. She's warmed the soup from yesterday evening, toasted a few slices of bread. The water's on for tea. She stands at the sink, rigid in her composure. He hesitates before walking to the sink to wash his hands, aware that something is badly amiss. He touches her shoulder gently.

"I'll just wash up for luncheon, shall I?"

She nods, turns to retrieve his mug from the draining board, busies herself by preparing his tea.

"Won't be long before the crocuses are in bloom." He folds and refolds the tea towel.

"Mmmm."

"Soup for luncheon?"

"As you see."

Oh dear. It's worse than he thought. She never holds herself so stiffly, never says so little, unless she is deeply angry. He casts his thoughts across the last few days. What had he done? She couldn't possibly know about…but then again, when hadn't she been able to read his mind? She knew what he would say or do before he did himself most days. And how was he to manage this? He hadn't been able to dismiss his feelings so easily. He knew it was wrong, criminal, to hold her past over her, to act as judge and jury without evidence, without knowledge, and yet he couldn't help himself. Her looking at another man the way she looked at him, pressing close, laying with him. It doesn't bear thinking about, but he can't stop. He's a hypocrite, he knows that. It's not as though he's kept himself apart from her, not as though he hasn't loved her nearly every time the opportunity's presented itself. He can feel his face flush. There's no defending it; there's only moving on. If only he knew, if only he had some idea. He sits at the table, prepares to eat.

"Won't you join me?"

"I will, Mr. Carson." She sits beside him, intensely focused on the spoon as it travels between the soup bowl and her mouth. She knows that she has to be the one to cast the line, but she can't seem to unbend. She's so very, very angry and underneath so terribly hurt and shamed, gods damn it. But she's got to get them over this hurdle. She sniffs; it's not likely that he'll ever be able to do it.

He takes a deep breath and jumps. "Is everything alright?"

She sits for a long moment.

"Only you seem a bit…quiet." His voice is gentle, cautious.

"I do?" Oh out with it Elsie, girl, out with it now. There's no parlor, no private space to hide and brood. Best to have it out and have done with. "I could say the same of you these past few days. Anything troubling you?"

"Well I…I…not especially." You damned fool, you hopeless liar.

She sighs. "What's this to do with, then, Mr. Carson? Are you displeased about something? Something to do with me?" She hesitates. "With us?" Oh, how cruel to discover at last how deeply she loves him only to learn that he does not, cannot, feel the same.

He can't make himself say the words; there are no words to describe what he feels. No polite words at any rate.

"I…well, you and. Well, it's not as though it's any of my business."

"What isn't your business?"

"Your life, your past."

"And what about my past? What is it, precisely, that you would like to know?"

That's just it, Mrs. Hughes, Mrs. Carson," he corrects himself angrily, "It's not for me to know anything unless you…" he trails off, unsure as to what he really wants. Does he really want to know? A hot burning sickness twists in his gut. Yes, yes he does want to know.

"You want to know whether I've known a man before you. Well the answer is yes. Yes I have." She stands abruptly, grabs her bowl of soup and takes it to the sink. She needs something to do with her hands, somewhere to hide from the shock and disgust she's afraid she'll see. She thinks of Thomas, suddenly, and of how difficult it is to live when you feel. She turns on him. "And you? Have you known a woman before me?"

He is shocked, taken aback, when he sees the look in her eyes. Could he have hurt her so much? All these years he fooled himself into believing that he'd risked only his own heart, that only he had been longing for something more than companionship, friendship even. Even down to marrying her he'd believed that she hadn't really cared for him all that much. That it was duty and convenience that brought her to him. Not that he cared, much. He just wanted her, on any terms. He hadn't expected anything (liar), but now they are lovers, he can't pretend any longer. He loves her, he desires her, all of her, even the parts of her that were never his, could never be his. He wants. And now he's on the verge of ruining it all.

"You know that I have," he says quietly, standing and taking a cautious step toward her. "But-"

"But what, Mr. Carson? But that was different? It's different for a man? Yes, I expect it is," she says bitterly. "Very well. You'll want to know all about it. He was a lovely, fine young man…"

"No." He closes the space between them, puts his hands on her shoulders, handles her roughly. "No, Elsie. There's no need to tell me anymore."

"Oh, but there is, Mr. Carson. It will fester if I don't." He releases her, takes a step back.

"I was a young lass with stars in her eyes and he was a fine young lad from the village. He was the son of the schoolmaster and I a farmer's daughter. He might as well have been the son of a lord. It didn't last, Mr. Carson. It couldn't. It didn't sit well with his Da that he'd taken a shine to me, so his Da sent him away. Far enough away to drive some sense into the lad, perhaps." She smiles, a soft, pained thing that pierces his heart. Then she fixes him with that familiar steely glare and lifts her chin.

"But I've no regrets, Mr. Carson. None, and you should know that. You should know that about me. I haven't shamed myself and I don't believe that I've shamed you. Oh aye it hurt. But I knew after that. I knew I'd always have to be in charge of my own self. I've always been free to choose." She takes a step towards him. "I chose you. I choose you, Charles."

The room is still and silent. She lets it rest around them.

He crosses the room in a moment and crushes her to him. His eyes are damp with tears he can't bear to shed.

"I love you" he whispers into her neck. "I love you."

She moves roughly against him, her mouth seeking his and they kiss for a long lovely moment.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Apologies for the delay. This chapter does contain some mature content. Gulp. Also, I've decided not to end the story at the moment. I'll keep going for a bit; at least until inspiration or your patience runs dry, whichever comes first. Thanks again to the lovely sensitivebore who graciously allowed me to lift certain elements from her marvelous fic Perseverance, which can be read and re-read on A03. And thanks to all of you who continue to leave such kind, thoughtful comments. I appreciate you all.**

She pulls away from him. "It's this that frightens you, isn't it? Not so much what I've done or what you've done, but what we are together, that you want this as well. I think the wanting of it is what scares you, Mr. Carson. Yours and mine."

"I don't know. I don't know why I can't just.." He trails off, antsy because he doesn't have the words to tell her what he means, what she means to him, what he wants for them. He should know by now that she doesn't need words to understand him. He's an open book and each page is a love letter to her. She strokes his cheek tenderly.

"Was it love, then?" He can't look her in the eye, too ashamed that he's jealous of an almost childhood liaison.

"I thought it was, at the time." She takes his face in her hands and gently turns it toward her. "It might have grown into love or what I think of as love now, had we time and opportunity."

"And what is that?" He can feel himself trembling, breaking apart.

She leans into him. "Someone so close as can finish my thoughts. Someone who takes my part, always. Someone who makes me feel what I thought had long since died." She kisses him on his jaw, on his cheek, on his mouth. He breaks away suddenly, takes her by the elbow and gently, tenderly escorts her to their room.

/

It's not so quiet now. He can hear the birds, the wind soughing through the trees. The light is brilliant, blinding. He releases her and turns to draw the covers of their bed back. His hands are trembling; he's so nervous, more nervous than their wedding day. He'd thought he'd gotten past all that. But this time is different; this is real. It feels honest and true. He turns to face her and she's everything, smiling and calm, waiting for him. He reaches for her, begins to pull the pins from her hair. His fingers are still trembling, damn them. He's trying not to pull at her hair, but he can feel the strands jerk from time to time. She puts her hands over his, guiding him to those last few pins buried in that heavy knot. Her hair down is what undoes him; it's so intimate. He'd never seen her hair down before, never. Not in all the years they'd worked together, even those rare occasions they'd been rousted from their beds during the night. She'd always taken the time to pin it up. Once, twice, he'd been so overwhelmed that he'd taken great handfuls of it, twisted it in his hands and pulled as he shuddered and grunted his way to release. He's got to calm down now, though, he's got to be able to take his time. This is different, special, and he wants to show her with his body all the things he's not able to say.

She looks at him, her husband, her lover, her man, and she can feel the difference in him, she can feel the letting go. She doesn't fool herself that he's a changed man, but still. She can feel the love pulsing off him like a physical presence. She's too happy to scold herself for being foolish, girlish. His hands in her hair, shaking, gentle, is what undoes her. He's so careful with her, too gentle almost, and yet once or twice she's felt that power, that feeling that he's nearly out of control. It excites her. She feels the heat and moisture gathering and she wants to crash against him, to prove to him with her body that she's truly his.

He leans down, places a tentative kiss on her lips; she wraps her arms around his neck and crushes herself against him. He jerks involuntarily; she can feel his hardness against her hip. She smiles wickedly against his mouth and pulls back, fumbling with the buttons of her dress.

They undress quickly and slide into bed together. He pushes her hair away from her face and the look of pure love brings tears to her eyes. She kisses him hard, writhes against him. He grunts, pushes her thighs apart with his knee and guides himself inside her with one long stroke. She gasps; he's such a large man and she's not accustomed to him, them, yet. He pulls back, alarmed, but she kisses him, opens her mouth so that her tongue can trace his lips. He spasms, rocks back and forth. She strokes his back, his buttocks.

He's gripping her hair, kissing her neck. It's so warm and wet; he's not sure how long he can keep going, but he wants to try. He wants it to be nice for her. He takes a deep breath, slows himself. He wants to learn what pleases her, what excites her. His fingers trace gentle patterns on her cheek, her neck. Slowly, carefully, they drift down to her breasts and he begins to caress her, listening to the noises she makes, trying to do more of what pleases her. She's panting, whispering "yes, oh yes" and he grips her breast hard. The other is at her hip, driving himself inside her as deeply as he can. She moves, pushes against him and they find that perfect rhythm.

"I can't, I can't, not yet."

"Yes, you can. Let go, now, it's…" She grips his buttocks hard and rocks against him, as though she's trying to push him deeper inside. She wraps her legs around his hips, and he can't, he can't last another moment. He slides over the precipice, mumbling her name all the while and kissing the warm dark hollow of her neck.

/

"Was it nice? Then, I mean?"

"Well, yes, I suppose." She fidgets a bit, uncomfortable. "He was kind, if that's what you mean." She is still for a moment. "Were yours," she hesitates, "nice?"

He can feel the tops of his ears burning. This wasn't a proper conversation to have with a lady, even if that lady was lying in his arms after…well, after.

"Well, it wasn't like yours, exactly." She adjusts herself carefully so that she can see him and still remain close.

"How do you mean?"

"Well, I was young and foolish."

She breaks in with a laugh. "Weren't we all, Mr. Carson?"

"You really must try to call me Charles." She can hear the smile in his voice. "And no, Elsie, I don't think we were all as young and foolish as I was. It wasn't," he hesitates. "It wasn't love, Elsie. It was just…" He shudders in distaste. It wasn't possible to compare that past with this present.

"I understand, Charles."

"You do?"

"Yes, I do." She moved closer, settling herself in the crook of his arm and tracing lazy, satisfied patterns on his chest.

He stills her hand. "And for you? Is this," his voice cracks a little, "love for you?"

She raises up on one elbow, clutching the sheet to her chest. "And what do you think, my man?"

He looks away, flustered, embarrassed. "I dunno. I just..." She quiets him by placing her finger lightly on his mouth. She stretches up to kiss him, gently, sweetly.

"Well, I do know. I love you, Charles Carson. I love you."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Slightly more rapid turnabout in honor of the fantastic sensitivebore whose fast updates, along with her mad literary skills, are legendary. Playing around with some different characters in the upcoming installments. Hope you enjoy!**

"So."

"So."

The tea's been poured into the delicate china cups that she saves out for best use. The biscuits she made (alright, she bought them; she's got no time for baking at present) are on a plate, arranged in a neat pattern.

"Sooo. So I want details, Mrs. Carson. Details. How is married life treating you?"

Mrs. Carson colors prettily and looks away for a moment, flustered. She shifts in her seat, smooths her skirt.

"Fine, Mrs. Patmore. Married life is fine."

It's that cat that ate the cream look, and Beryl's not going to let her get away with it. Not after all they've been through together, not after how close they've become.

"Fine. Bah. That's no answer. I can see by your face that it's more than fine."

"Whatever do you mean, Mrs. Patmore?" And Elsie mentally shakes herself, angry at not being able to better conceal her overwhelming joy in not just being married, but being married to _him_.

"In fact," Beryl says slyly, "you look quite content. Quite," she pauses for a long moment, "satisfied." She focuses on sipping her tea and making a valiant effort not to laugh outright.

Elsie lets out an indignant huff and stiffens her spine as she used to do before an argument about the store cupboard key or some other bit of household nonsense.

Beryl raises a hand. "Now don't wind yourself up, Mrs. Carson. I was only having a bit of a lark. I can see for myself that all is well between you."

Now this really is going too far. Of course Beryl would take certain liberties, but honestly. As if she's going to sit here in broad daylight and allude to any of the private things between her and Mr. Carson. It's that tone, though, that smug, teasing tone that always gets her riled.

"Cat got your tongue, Mrs. Carson?"

Snap out of it Els; your mind's chasing mice. "No, Mrs. Patmore, not at all. Care for some biscuits?"

Beryl sees she'll have to change tactics if she hopes to get even a morsel of information from her tight-lipped friend. Nary a word she'd said on the subject of their engagement, and it the talk of downstairs for those three weeks and a good bit after. Beryl never could see as how folks was so surprised; anybody with eyes could see he was besotted by her. From the very first moment she stepped into the house he was captivated, though he tried so hard to conceal it by sniping and grousing at her just as much, if not more, than the others. But Elsie Hughes was more than a match for him. She never baited him, never gave him a legitimate opportunity to dismiss her and she worked as hard or harder than any other member of staff. Beryl wondered if things might change between them once Elsie became Mrs. Hughes, but if anything they were more stilted and formal with one another than before. Gradually, so gradually that one could almost ignore it, almost, they began to soften towards one another and it became unusual to find one without the other. Bookends, like. So, no, she wasn't surprised that they married. The surprise of it was that it took them both so long to see sense. She fancied Mrs. Hughes knew, though. Couldn't prove it, though she tried in those last few weeks. That stubborn Scottish queen gave up no secrets, betrayed no hint of real emotion. Both of them, really. More like statues than people. But now, to look at her now, how could you not know? How could you not have known they loved each other more than the world itself?

"It seems you're the one gathering wool now, Mrs. Patmore," says Elsie chuckling gently. "And what's the news at the big house?"

"It's all the same for that lot: guests and dinners and balls. Mr. Barrow's settling in better than expected."

"How do you mean? Mr. Carson trained him personally." Elsie has that indignant lift to her chin, that straight spine.

That last bit was very Scottish, thinks Beryl. Calm down, missy. No one's putting the blame on your man.

"I only meant as none of us was sure the lad had it in 'im, to replace Mr. Carson, I mean," says Beryl mildly.

At that Elsie relaxes. And now Beryl pounces.

"These biscuits are good. Quite good. Make 'em yourself?" She glances at Elsie out of the corner of her eyes.

"Nooo," Elsie laughs. "I haven't the time to be baking these days."

"And what do you get up to here in this little cottage all by yourself?"

"I'm not by my-," Elsie breaks off abruptly. She'd been had. She sits stiffly, a mutinous frown on her face. "You tricked me, Beryl Patmore."

"Oh, aye, I did. How else is a friend to get a little information from somebody so tight-lipped. Come on, now! Only a fool would miss that little switch when you walk or how you get all shirty when anybody so much as mentions his name. Out with it, my lady. I thought we was friends."

"We are friends, Mrs. Patmore, very good friends." She folds her hands in her lap primly. " I just don't know quite what you're talking about, that's all."

Beryl looks at her friend hard. "I'm talking about what's keeping you from being able to make biscuits yourself, Elsie my girl." She sits back in her chair with a wicked grin, triumphant, as Elsie goes from deep pink to nearly purple with mortification.

"Mrs. Patmore, I…"

"Save your breath to cool your porridge. Just tell me this." She leans forward, intent. " Are you happy, truly happy?"

Elsie sits for a moment, quiet and thoughtful, so beautifully elegant in her simple cream blouse and navy skirt. She's luminous now, lit from within by joy and wonder. She takes a sip of tea and meets Beryl's gaze calmly. "I am, Mrs. Patmore. I am."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Playing around with another character. Hope you enjoy!**

Charles is irritable, lonesome. He rattles around the cottage, jerking out drawers, slamming cabinets. It's ridiculous, really. Choir practice is only two hours. It's only one morning a week. I mean, really, he scolds himself. It's not as if she ever does anything for herself. This is the one thing that is hers and he won't take it from her by acting like a petulant schoolboy. Still. He doesn't have to like it. He only has to pretend to. It's just that, without her, the cottage is empty, alien. He spent the last twenty years in a cell, really; very few possessions of his own out to give his room personality. Her office was different; of course he'd never seen her room, but he'd assumed it to be as spare and plain as his own. Her office, though, was definitely not. A few photographs, some delicate figurines, a throw she had stitched together during those long evenings she'd stayed up, waiting for him, or so he liked to think. And she's done the same for their cottage. So many personal touches that she'd added, where did they all come from? And somehow, she'd managed to find a photograph of his mother. She must have spoken to Beryl about that. It all spoke to her; there was really very little of him in it, and yet he'd never felt more at home in his life. Except for the two hours every week that she's gone. Bah, he mutters to himself. Be off with you. Go to the village, wander about, surprise Elsie at the church. Would she like that? He wasn't sure. Perhaps…a sly smile crosses his face. Perhaps she would like it very much. It won't take a minute to get his coat and hat.

* CE *

He makes his way slowly toward the village. It's still a bit nippy in spite of its being spring. He's glad he's worn his coat; the wind can be bitter. He is surprised to find himself whistling, _whistling_ of all things. He's not felt this light in years, since he was a young lad going from town to town with Griggs, before things got sticky. It's her that's done it. She's made a place in his heart and he's not right without her. Why the devil did he wait so long? Why did she? He knew it would only have taken one of them to strike the match. The only times he tried to talk to her about his true feelings, his tongue turned to lead and he could only mumble some trite phrase or other. "Don't tell me you'll miss me." She would say it does no good to dwell on the past, and she's right, only he's trying to puzzle it out, trying to find exactly what he's done in his life to deserve her, this happiness. He knows he's a difficult man, prickly, self-absorbed, curmudgeonly, (he knows what they think of him), yet she makes him feel…he stops in the road. That's just it. She makes him feel. Standing stock still in the middle of the path to the village and he's grinning like an idiot.

"Mr. Carson? Are you alright?" Mr. Bates' voice reaches him before the sound of his tread on the path, slow but steady.

He starts, turns suddenly, draws himself up. "Mr. Bates, how good to see you. Yes, I'm perfectly alright. Just forgotten something I'd intended to do in the village."

"I'm headed to the village; off to pick up his Lordship's dinner jacket from London." Bates smiles. "It needed certain repairs beyond my capabilities. Such a nice day I thought I'd walk."

"It's a bit far, though, isn't it?" Charles can't stop his tongue before the words come out.

"I'll manage, Mr. Carson. I always do."

Charles clears his throat. "So you do," he says gruffly." Care to walk with me a ways?"

"I'd like that," Bates says quietly. "How is Mrs. Carson?"

"She's well; quite well."

"And is she enjoying the cottage? Retirement?"

"Yes, I should think so. Very much so. I think we're both enjoying it more than we thought." He stops at the sudden grin he spies out of the corner of his eye. "Retirement, that is."

"Of course. It must be nice to call your own tune, so to speak, after so many years of service."

"It was my pleasure to serve the family to my fullest ability, Mr. Bates," Charles says stiffly. He pauses for a moment, relaxes the stiff set of his shoulders. "But I must admit that having no one to account my time to is no bad thing."

"Indeed."

They walk in silence for a few moments.

"Where is Mrs. Carson this morning? I'm surprised she's not making the trip to the village with you."

"Mrs. Carson is at choir practice." Charles ducks his head sheepishly. "I find I don't like to be alone in the house."

Bates stifles a grin; oh the tale he can tell Anna when he gets home tonight. "I didn't know Mrs. Hughes, sorry, Mrs. Carson could sing?"

"Oh she has a lovely voice," he says dreamily, and Bates finds he has to turn from the wistful, longing look on Mr. Carson's face. On second thought, he might not share this particular tale with Anna. At least not in jest.

"Well, our way parts here, I do believe, Mr. Carson. I must be off to the train station."

"And I must get on with my errands. I enjoyed our little chat."

"As did I, Mr. Carson. Please give Mrs. Carson our best."

"I will, and send our regards to Mrs. Bates."

"I will. She'll be pleased to hear you're getting on so well."

"Well…," Charles looks away, embarrassed.

"I must be off," Bates says, and extends his hand. They shake and he turns towards the train station. He walks a few paces forward and can't resist turning around to look. He's not surprised to see Mr. Carson making his way toward the church. Not surprised at all.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: M-rated chapter below. Read at your own risk…**

She's doing the washing up from luncheon. The water is steaming and it's causing little tendrils of hair to escape and curl along her neck. Very attractive, he thinks. Very inviting. He pushes his chair back from the table; she turns to look at him with a smile. He stands and walks toward her, reaching out for her. She's shown him often enough that she's not fragile, delicate. He'd worked with her side-by-side for more than 15 years; he knows how strong she is. But. What he feels for her is so overwhelming, so powerful, it frightens him. He makes sure to control it as best he can. He would never want to hurt her, never want to mar her beautiful skin with marks from his hands, from the rough stubble of his beard. He would never want to lay on her with his full weight, to cause her the slightest discomfort. And yet. There have been those few times since, a very few in the daylight when he could see her eyes (and his face burns to think of it, daylight), he could see that she wanted more. He holds her, lightly at first, gently nuzzling the curls on the back of her neck. She tastes of salt, lemons.

"Whatever are you doing, Mr. Carson?" A peal of laughter escapes her. "You can see I'm doing the washing up."

"I can see that, Mrs. Carson." He buries his nose in her hair, pushes it away and bites her neck, gently, even though it is a secret place that none could see, if he does perchance leave a mark.

"Charles Edward Carson!" She's shocked, and a little pleased. He's never been quite so…forward before.

"Can't a husband take certain liberties?" he teases. He tightens his grip and pulls her close to him. She can feel now that he wants to…well that he wants to. Her own moisture is gathering and her not even done with the washing up. Slatternly.

"Charles, I…" He turns her suddenly, and the water from her hands flies onto his face, his hands, his shirt and waistcoat. He kisses her, hoping to avoid any silly argument about finishing the dishes. Gods damn the dirty dishes. He'll do them and a hundred more, later. He can feel her relax in his arms, lean into him, and she opens her mouth. He knows better now what she likes, not everything, though. He's not sure she knows everything she likes, but he knows some. He's learning. He's listened to that soft panting moan and tried to do more of what causes it each time they lay together. He thinks he can never tire of this, never tire of the feel of her against him, her tongue in his mouth, tentative at first, then thrusting when she becomes excited. He is so aroused now that he cannot wait for the bedroom, cannot wait even to remove all their clothes. He has to have her here, now, in the kitchen against the sink. He grabs her, lifts her onto the countertop. She's shocked, starts to protest, but he kisses her again. Again. Soft kisses, so that she remembers she can trust him. She breaks off.

"Here?" she whispers, scandalized. "We can't do this here."

"I thought you were the one who said we can do what we like now." He gives her a roguish grin.

"I did, but…but…"

"But you didn't mean this?" He kisses her again, harder, and traces her lips with his tongue. She shudders. He begins to unbutton her blouse. She's too shocked to protest, but there is something in her eyes that tells him that this is acceptable. More than acceptable. He exposes the swell of her breasts; he grunts, aggravated by all the layers that separate them. He knows he can't wait much longer; he's not a young man, after all. He reaches beneath her skirts, finds her knickers and pulls at them none too gently. Elsie shifts in an effort to help him get them off. His desire has ignited her own and she's nearly as desperate as he. Together they work her knickers down and he removes them gently, as gently as he can, from her ankles. Now she looks away, embarrassed. This is so wanton, so decadent. She hadn't imagined he could be so passionate. Loving, yes, but reserved. He always keeps some feelings tightly reined in. Now it seems he's letting some of them loose. Ah well, Elsie thinks, in for a penny, in for a pound, and she raises her skirts.

He fumbles for a moment, only a moment, then he quickly unbuttons his pants, pushes them and his shorts down around his ankles. She opens her legs and reaches for him, love and desire and passion in her eyes. Her hands, her chest, so warm. He guides himself inside her with one long grunt and he gathers her to him, murmuring soft nonsense words in her ear. She pulls back and kisses him, hard. Their tongues crash together much as their bodies do, and she has to break away, has to lean back to take a deep, shuddering breath. She exposes the creamy length of her neck and he licks it with his tongue, from the hollow groove at her chest all the way to her chin. He's thrusting, pumping harder and harder, his hands gripping her where they can get purchase, her hip, her breast. Her arms and legs are wrapped around him; she has to hold him tightly to keep from falling. Suddenly, he reaches between their joined bodies, reaches a gentle finger into that small dark space he's been reluctant (afraid) to venture and tentatively, clumsily begins to stroke. This is a new sensation that drives all rational thought from her mind. Never, never had she known it could be like this. Never had she known she could feel this way. She'd never touched herself before, been taught it was forbidden, a sin. Here, with Charles, she was experiencing more pleasure than she'd ever known. She thought she'd die from it. All she could do was press herself more closely to him, bury her face in his neck and kiss him over and over again in that warm dark hollow until sparks explode behind her eyes and her body is rigid and taut before it goes limp again.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks to Kouw, whose lovely comment for the previous chapter brought this plot bunny to life. Hope you enjoy!**

He's sitting, awkward, uncomfortable, waiting for his annual physical with Dr. Clarkson. Nothing wrong, really. He's in excellent physical shape. He might be carrying an extra stone or two, but no one seems to mind. He absentmindedly twirls his hat in his hands. There is one thing, though, that's been troubling him. Only since his marriage, though. Never before. Well, alright, sometimes before, but he could control it then. He could be patient then. Not now. He thinks of it all the time. He thinks of it in the morning (especially in the morning, first thing in the morning) until he forces himself out of the bed, changes out of his nightclothes and puts on the water for tea, unless she's done it already. He likes to give her a bit of space in the morning, a bit of time all her own, to do her hair, lace up her corset, whatever else it is she does to prepare for the day. He doesn't want to know. Not really. He's able to eat, of course, then she gives him a lovely kiss after breakfast, sometimes before, depending, then he goes out to the garden. There he can work a bit and not think of it, though sometimes he does. Then it's luncheon and she's near him again. She has the loveliest scent: fresh and clean, invigorating he would say. Sometimes he can get close enough to smell her without distracting her, like he used to do in the old days, though it shames him to think of it. All that time they wasted; he wasted. Well. He has her now, as often as he likes it seems, but maybe he likes it too much? Is it wrong? A sin? Perhaps this is a question for the rector, but no. He's seen the way the man looks at Elsie. No, definitely not. It's not a question for the rector. But should he be concerned, medically speaking? They are older, after all. He, especially; he's not some randy young man. But then he thinks of them in the kitchen just the other day, and his face burns and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat. What was that? Not even to wait until a proper, more suitable time and place, but to take her there in the kitchen. It was, it was, well it was wonderful, of course. He could still hear the sound of the muffled cries she made as he…

"Mr. Carson?" A pretty young nurse interrupts his thoughts. "Dr. Clarkson will see you now."

*CE*

He's buttoning his waistcoat, nearly ready to put his suit coat back on.

"Well, Mr. Carson," Dr. Clarkson strides in the room again, "very fit, I should say. Of course you could stand to lose a stone or two, if you've a mind to. Certainly make it easier on your knees."

Charles grunts noncommittally as he elegantly shrugs into his coat. "Yes, well."

"Very well, then. We'll see you again next year?" Carson nods. "Give my regards to Mrs. Carson."

"Well, doctor. There is, that is to say, I was wondering…"

"Yes, anything else?"

"Well, I was wondering whether it is normal, proper, for two people who have…well, what I mean to say is when two people marry and both are…"

Clarkson takes pity on the poor man. "It's not uncommon, Mr. Carson, for there to be," he pauses, "difficulties at your stage in life. The best advice is to be patient and to remember that not everything works as it once did. There are other ways," he says delicately, "for a husband to show his affection."

Charles is aghast. He thinks, he actually thinks that I can't, that we haven't…it's insupportable.

"That's not it at all, Doctor. If anything, there have been frequent…encounters."

"Oh," says Dr. Clarkson, somewhat taken aback. "Well, then, you have my congratulations."

"I don't need congratulations," snaps Charles. "I need to know if this is normal!"

"Normal? I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."

Charles grinds his teeth in frustration. "I'm asking whether it's normal for people of our age, my age," he corrects himself, "to be quite so active. Is that normal?" His face is red and his chest is tight. Damn and blast the man for being so obtuse.

"Well." Now Clarkson finds himself flustered, embarrassed even. Shocking for an old medical man like himself. He thought he'd heard them all, but this one really took the biscuit. Of all things to worry about! He sighed. Poor Mr. Carson, unable to enjoy the gifts God has granted him. Poor Mrs. Carson. On second thought, he amended that. She'd always been able to manage him better than most. Better than any, really. He'd no doubt she was just fine. He'd seen her on the street recently and he thought she was looking remarkably well, any traces of the stress and anguish from her cancer scare gone. No, she was more blooming than he'd ever seen her. Now he knows why. But to get _him_ on the right track. What should he say? "Well, I'd say that's normal, perfectly normal. Newly wedded couples often discover the delightful nature of marital intimacy and return to it with frequency. It's very natural and it tends to pass with time. Unless there have been complaints?"

Complaints? What could the man mean by complaints? Elsie's not complained. "No. No, none that I'm aware of."

"Then you've nothing to worry about," Clarkson says briskly. "Everything sounds perfectly normal, perfectly fine."

"So you don't think there is anything wrong? With me, I mean?"

Poor sod. "No, Mr. Carson. There is nothing wrong with you at all, "Clarkson says kindly. "Go home. Go home and enjoy being married. And thank God you've the time and energy to spend with one another. It could so easily have gone another way."

Charles blanches at the thought. He doesn't like to be reminded of Elsie's scare; he tries not to think of it at all. "Yes, yes, you're right. Of course." He straightens and the cool façade of Carson the butler reappears. "Thank you, doctor, you've been most informative. Good day."

"Good day, and please do give my regards to Mrs. Carson."

"Indeed I will." He turns stiffly and leaves the room.

Clarkson watches the door for a long moment. He's tempted to laugh, of course he is, but the pathos of the situation makes him sorrowful instead. A good man, that, but seemingly incapable of enjoying life's few pleasures. He hoped he'd been able to straighten out that little misunderstanding. But if he hadn't, he trusted Mrs. Carson could.


	10. Chapter 10

She cannot do the dishes now without flushing. She still can't believe they did _that_ there. What in the world had come over them? Over her? She's not some young lass mooning over the boy one farm over. She's a grown woman, a mature woman, past that stage of life where her body is ruled by desire. And yet, he has tapped that wellspring of passion that she buried so deep for so long; now it's gushing forth and she's not got control of it. She thinks of him at the most inappropriate times: while she's haggling at the market, during choir practice, church even. She wouldn't have him know this for the world (he does have an ego, after all), but she takes great pleasure in secretly watching him in the garden. His muscles bunch together so strongly as he spades and weeds; the wind plays with his hair and he looks younger, softer. Always such a dignified man, it's a great treat to seem him a bit mussed, a bit undone. How can she help but think of him when he's truly undone? He whispers beautiful nonsense words, words of love, endearments when they lay together. It sends shivers up her spine to remember them. It's harder for her, even though she feels it. She feels it desperately, but it's so hard to say the words. She murmurs to him, rubs his back, his face, hopes she's able to communicate through touch what she can't with words. But this is all nonsense, foolishness. And not getting the dishes done. She sighs as she ties her apron strings. He's due back from Dr. Clarkson's at any moment; her heart clenches unreasonably. If there is anything to chill this sudden spring in her life, it's fear of a lingering illness, or worse, death. The Almighty couldn't be so cruel as all that. They waited so long, certainly they are overdue for some happiness. But, she chides herself, there are many who expected long and happy loving lives only to be cut short even before they reached their prime. It's foolish, blasphemous to expect more happiness than she has at this moment. And this moment, catching sight of her man whistling his way up the walk (_whistling_?), is one that is overflowing with joy.

*CE*

Another lovely afternoon, so they decide to take a stroll through the grounds of the Abbey. Just to see how far they can go. There is nothing for them to do at the cottage; chores have been done, the back garden's been tended to. The boy they hired to look after the front bit for them has come and gone. They've got some leisure time; why not walk awhile and see where they end up? He's pulled her arm through his, tightly, and they walk slowly, enjoying the warmth of the sun, the gentle breeze. The trees are in bud and the flowers are beginning to bloom. It's a lovely time.

He looks down at her fondly. He likes these new hats; he can see more of her face now, when they walk. Her face is like the sky; her expressions change so quickly now. She doesn't have to hide, to censor herself. Nor does he. He likes that as well. He can see how they've changed, become different since they married. Or maybe, he muses, they are simply remembering the people they were before they entered service. Certainly he has become more relaxed, less rigid. Those standards, while still important, are not most important. Not anymore. He can be encouraged, very easily encouraged to lay some of his older (possibly ancient) restrictions down. He is glad to be living in the 20th century, glad to have been able to marry the woman he loves, glad he is able to love her.

"And what are you grinning about, Mr. Carson?" She has caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eyes and is pleased to see him looking so relaxed, so happy (there's no other word for it).

"Your hat."

"My hat?" exclaims Elsie incredulously. "And what do you find so amusing about my hat?" She reaches up a hand to pat it down self-consciously.

"It's a lovely hat," he reassures her. "Very becoming." He trails off. "I can see more of your face now. Not like before," he mumbles.

"I didn't know you were so attuned to ladies fashions, Mr. Carson." She draws the r out a bit for him. He has confided to her that he likes the way his name sounds in her mouth.

"A good butler must always apprise himself of the latest trends."

"Certainly, certainly. Especially those of the lords and ladies, but I would have thought the fashions of lowly housekeepers and such would be beneath the great man's notice."

"Not at all. It's merely prudent to ensure that the staff is as well turned out as possible, so as not to bring disgrace to the family."

"Ah, an excellent point. So, careful attention to detail, such as the size and style of the housekeeper's hat, is merely part of the job description."

"Indeed. What separates a good butler from a great one is attention to detail. Certain junior members of staff might be excused on some points, but the housekeeper, due to her importance to the household, must be scrutinized more carefully than the rest."

"In other words, the butler of a very fine house might be expected to look after the housekeeper? To be sure she upholds the highest standards of the house?"

He nods playfully. "The very highest. The butler can be excused from any suspicion of tender regard because he is only performing his duty. He would never be suspected of maintaining personal feelings."

"I see. And what if such a man did maintain personal feelings towards a staff member?"

"He would hide them away from the world, only daring to think on them when he is completely alone and free from scrutiny himself. Perhaps at night, while trying to lull himself to sleep. He would never reveal his true feelings on such an important topic as that. He would wait until the opportune moment presented itself before broaching such a delicate subject."

"And what would he say then?"

"Well, he'd be no poet, but I should think he could find the right words to woo such a fine, spirited woman who has excellent taste in hats." He grins, just a little. She is very spirited, after all.

She looks up at him, catches the small grin and laughs aloud herself. He takes her hand to his mouth and kisses it gently, then rests it on his arm again. Now to finish their leisurely walk, eat a good supper, spend a companionable evening, then retire together for the night. Yes, he has much to be thankful for.


	11. Chapter 11

It was one of those rare times, then, that her hair was completely loose. She was standing at the vanity, combing it free of tangles in that perfunctory way women had of doing the most seductive things in the most practical manner. Her hair was a never-ending source of delight to him. A little frisson of excitement shot its way up his spine. He could see the silver in it now, not that that bothered him, not in the least. He loved the feel of it in his hands, against his cheek, the lovely fresh smell of it. It's so beautiful when it's down and here is the long thick fall of it. He comes up behind her silently (another advantage of his trade) and gently puts his hand over the brush. She jumps, startled out of her reverie by his sudden appearance.

"May I?" He gestures toward the brush.

"You want to brush my hair?" For some reason, this strikes her as more intimate than anything they've yet done.

"You wouldn't mind?" He can't bring himself to admit just how much he's longed to comb it out. He doesn't know why; he knows it must seem strange to her and he doesn't want to frighten her off.

"No," she says, with just the slightest hesitation. She knows he will be gentle, tender, it's just that this feels like a service to her in some way, and she's uneasy with that.

He pulls the brush through her hair, gently, too gently at first, then he begins to tug when he meets resistance. It is soothing, this, to be taken care of. Reminds her of being a girl and her mam brushing the tangles out of the wild, streaming mass that always flew behind her. She relaxes into him, closes her eyes, hums a little lilt of a tune her auntie used to sing. Her mother never did much singing.

Carson is enchanted. He's never seen her so relaxed, so easy. She's even swaying a bit to this lovely little tune she's humming. This, then, is his moment. All those years of running, striving, then those years of serving, impatiently at first, then settling into his role until he became the role. Until she came along and woke him from a long, impossibly dull dream with her piercing eyes, her sharp tongue. Then came the pretense of colleagues, friends even, all the while denying the emotions stirring beneath that careful mask he put on each day. But now they are husband and wife. He is privy to a million little gestures, habits, expressions that he never knew existed. He wants to lay with her, but curiously he doesn't want to spoil the purity of this moment between them. He wants to do something for her, without expectation or physical desire. He smooths the last of her hair and lays the brush on the vanity. She sighs, opens her eyes and smiles at him in the looking glass. He lays a gentle kiss on the top of her head, squeezes her shoulder and glides away again, content.


	12. Chapter 12

Dr. Clarkson drops her wrist, shakes his head, stands, turns his back. He's holding her, tightly, but she won't open her eyes. He tries to speak, but no words will come out. He starts to rock her, to shake her, to cry out her name…

"Charles, Charles, wake up," as she shakes his shoulder. "Wake up, mo ghradh. You're dreaming, wake up."

He jerks suddenly, sits straight up in bed, disoriented. "What?"

She's rubbing his back in small, soothing circles. "Shhh," she whispers. "it's just a dream." She leans back and urges him to lay back against her.

"Just a dream," he mumbles thickly. He scrubs his hand across his eyes and she settles him more firmly against her breast. She drops a few gentle kisses in his hair. He turns with a start and hugs her fiercely.

"What's all this then?" He won't raise his head; he only holds her more tightly. "Come now," she strokes his face gently. He takes a shuddering breath; her nightdress is warm and damp. He is crying. "Oh my man, what is it? Can't you tell me? Is this about your dream?"

He shakes his head. He can't tell her, can't admit that he's seized with fright sometimes. What if, what if. What if Clarkson was wrong? What if the cyst in her breast (she finally spoke of it after they'd made love that first afternoon; he'd felt the scar) wasn't benign after all? What if he lost her now after all those wasted years? These were thoughts he could banish, with some difficulty, during the day, but he had no control over his dreams. Always the same cold dread, her body in his arms, cool to the touch. He shudders involuntarily. But now, now he can feel her, smell her. She is warm and alive and holding him as tightly as he is clinging to her and thank God for it. He buries his face deeper into the hollow between her breasts and takes a few deep breaths.

"I'm alright, it's…it's foolish, really, all this fuss over a dream. Not real anyhow. I'm sorry I woke you."

She laughs softly. "I don't mind," and she settles him more comfortably against her and rubs soothing hands across his back and arms. She kisses his head again and hums that lovely little tune again.

He raises his head slightly. "Elsie?"

"Mmmh?"

"What is that you're singing?"

"Oh, nothing. Just something my aunt used to sing when I was small."

"A lullaby?"

Elsie snorted. "Hardly. Neither our aunt nor our mam was much for lullabies. No, it's a song of two sisters who fall in love with the same man and one drowns the other."

Charles can't help but laugh. "Well that's cheerful. Did she sing that round the fire at Christmastime?"

"Nooo, of course not," and here her brogue thickens, as it often does when she talks of home, which is rare indeed. "Just a song she sang, mostly to irritate our mam. I don't know why I even bother to remember the words."

"But why would your aunt want to," Charles begins, but Elsie cuts him off.

"Why would she want to bother and plague her only sister? Oh I don't know. Perhaps she was a bit jealous of Mam. Da was considered a sort of prize, you might say, and he never hid the fact that he fancied both the elder and the younger sister. Da always did have a bit of a puffed chest about him. Liked to feel important and Mam had no patience for being teased. I think he just threw it up to Mam, threw it up to her that she was no longer young and blooming, not that children and a farm and a gadabout husband are much good for preserving complexions." She stops abruptly. "I don't know why I brought all that up. I don't generally care to wander about through the past. And," she says, in a mock stern voice, "it was your dream we were to be talking about. Not old ballads and old arguments." She can feel him smile against her chest. He's begun to relax now, shouldn't be long before he drifts back to sleep. She smooths his hair and face. He plays with the cuff of her nightgown.

"You don't mention your sister often."

"No, I don't suppose I do. No great secret in that. I've just gotten used to keeping myself to myself. I forget now that I don't have to. You don't mention much of your family, either."

"No, it's much the same, I suppose. I was something else for such a long time, I'd almost forgotten I'd ever been a boy. Of course no one else would believe it. They all think I sprang forth fully formed in my livery."

Elsie laughs, a deep rich laugh that quickens his heart. "Aye, they might, but I know better. I'll wager you were a lovely little lad with only a bit of mischief in him for spice."

"Oh I got into my fair share of scrapes, I'll grant you." He's drowsier now, won't be able to stay awake for much longer.

"Well," she says softly as she settles them both down a little further in the bed, "you'll have to tell me all about them another time. We should sleep now."

"Mmmhhh." He nods sleepily. "Sing to me Elsie?"

So she sings to him as she rubs his back, sings to him not of dark jealous murderous love, but of blue and sky and green and open. Sings him snatches of lullabies in the old tongue and wonders for a moment, only a moment, what it might have been like to cradle their child at her breast.


	13. Chapter 13

He wakes gradually to find himself still in her arms, still cradled between her breasts. He tries not to move, tries to regulate his breathing so as not to disturb her. He wants to squeeze, to burrow in, but he does not want to spoil the peace of this moment. So much of his life now feels like a dream. He had admired her for years and carefully hid the preference he felt for her behind position, duty and later age. No one would suspect him of carrying on over a woman; he was too old by far. That was only for the young. And no one did, save Lady Mary. She always was too clever by half and there was something in her gaze when she spotted them together, something sharp and proprietary and knowing. It had been she who encouraged him to propose, not that he would ever admit that to Elsie. She was none too fond of Lady Mary, in spite of all she'd done for their Anna and Mr. Bates. No, it would do no good to let that cat out of the bag. But Lady Mary had encouraged him, given him hope. He was tired, after all, tired of pretending, tired of putting on the mask that grew just a bit heavier each day, tired of not being able to reach out and smooth a stray hair away from her face, tired of restraining himself from touching her except on the elbow or the small of her back and even then only out of necessity and not pure desire. When she fell ill, the fear of her dying was compounded by his anger at never having pursued her, of never having tried. He could not resist singing when Beryl had given him the good news, all the stress and worry evaporated on hearing that one word: benign. So what had taken him so long after that? What had kept him from gathering her in his arms right then? Fear, habit, he didn't know what. He'd always had a soft spot for Lady Mary, but now he was truly indebted to her, for wasn't she the one who, in spite of her grief (or perhaps because of it), prodded him, pestered him, needled him to move forward, to ask her and have done, to make a new life for himself, for them. And once she'd seen that done, she had insisted on the best of the available cottages for them, demanded that they choose from among the best pieces of furniture in the attics, ensured that their living would continue until the death of both. She had cleared all obstacles like a woman possessed. If she could not be happy, then she would gain some measure of happiness by seeing him so. At least it seemed that way to him. And so he asked her; fumbled it royally, he was so nervous. He thought she might say yes, he thought she might agree, but he couldn't be sure. He was so afraid that she might refuse and then what would he do? But she hadn't; she'd accepted in her calm, kindly way and he was relieved, overjoyed. And now he is here, in her arms on what looks to be a beautiful spring day. He risks a small, contented sigh.

She stirs then, hugs him to her, nuzzles her face in his hair.

"This is nice. You always disappear so quickly in the mornings."

He hadn't thought that she would notice. "Well, I don't want to intrude."

"Intrude?" she scoffs, almost shrieks with suppressed laughter. "You've a husband's rights now," she teases. "Your home is your castle and every room your domain."

He picks up her playful mood. "Well in that case, perhaps I'll exercise some of those rights this morning."

"And what rights would those be?" she asks archly.

"I'm not entirely sure. I am rather new at this. Perhaps this?" He grazes a fingertip across her nipple and she jerks involuntarily.

"That could certainly be construed as one of your rights."

"So we've established one set of rights." He continues to caress her, watching with fascination and delight as her body responds to his touch. Her muscles tense, always, when they lay together, as though the anticipation of making love is too great to bear. Without thinking, he leans over and kisses her nipple. He hears her sharp intake of breath as she presses herself to him. The fabric of her nightgown is worn and thin; hazily he thinks he should buy her a new one, but he's glad also, because the thin cloth affords more opportunity to feel her breast with his mouth, his tongue. He's kissing her breast and she is arching her back, pressing herself into him, pressing more of her nipple, her breast into his mouth. His hands reach down clumsily to find the hem of her nightgown. He wants to feel her skin, he wants nothing to separate them. He's suckling hungrily, passionately; he's never done this before and briefly wonders whether she has before he pushes that thought firmly away. Soon she's lifting her hips, her hands scrabbling to help him remove her gown, to unbutton it and pull it over her head. Her body is so beautiful to him; with his hands he maps its contours in the night, but in the daytime he has grown bolder, no longer taking embarrassed sidelong glances at her, now he looks straight on, the beautiful swell of her breasts, the curve of her waist and hips, the creamy skin. He looks into her eyes for a moment and kisses her hard on the mouth, then kisses her neck, her collarbone, then her breasts, first one, then the other, kneading, rubbing the one nipple with his fingers while doing the same with his tongue to the other. Her hips are bucking now and his pajama pants are moist. He is almost unbearably hard. She's worked the buttons of his pajama top loose and opens it to rub her hands against a wide swath of his chest.

"I want…" she mutters.

"What," he says roughly, "what is it you want?"

She looks away, still embarrassed at what lies between them. It's easier to show him than to say the words. It seems wanton, whorish even, to tell your man what pleases you. She knows it's foolish, she knows he's not like that (much), but still she cannot form the words. Instead she moves her hands to the waistband of his pajama bottoms, his hips, lightly strokes the bulge she feels pressing against her center.

He cannot think for the mad throbbing. He works his way out of his pajama bottoms and she helps him kick them off. At last she can feel his hard length against her skin and she smiles, opens her legs and lifts her hips to give him room to maneuver. He takes a hand and tries to guides himself in slowly, so slowly. He never wants this to end, but he knows it must. That doesn't mean he has to hasten it. He wants to hear those cries again, low and guttural. He slides himself all the way inside her, then spasms as she wraps her legs around his lower back, his hips, strokes his thighs and his back.

"Will you say it Elsie? Please, will you say it?" She doesn't often say it; she feels it, he knows she feels it, but he wants to hear her say it.

"I love you." She takes one hand and gently turns his face toward hers. "I love you," she says and kisses him again and again, snaking her tongue in and around and outside his mouth until he thinks he will burst with passion and love.

He murmurs into her neck those beautiful words she strains to hear and remember. _Oh, love, I love you. I love you. I've always loved you. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry. Oh my dear darling girl. You are so beautiful, this is too much, I can't._

"There now," she soothes him, takes his hand in hers and squeezes it tightly. "It's alright, mo ghradh, it's alright. I love you. I love you."

She folds him in her arms and he rocks against her harder, faster. She matches his rhythm, discovering with surprised delight that she can feel that delicious friction building.

He hears her small cries of pleasure and moves his hand to that secret dark place that is so wet. His fingers slide along, moving with her and soon small low moans sound in his ear. He feels a tightening so he pumps harder and faster until there is nothing left. He buries his face in her neck and swallows the tears that threaten.


	14. Chapter 14

She strokes his neck, his back and shoulders with light skimming fingertips, places gentle kisses on the shell of his ear, the top of his head, wherever her lips can reach him. Holding him in her arms like this fills her in some way that she doesn't quite understand (she does, of course she knows, it's just that she doesn't like to dwell on it). Holding him after they've lain together is another special joy; she can feel the small tremors of his muscles as they begin to relax from the exercise they've just taken. Rubbing small tight circles along his back calms her somehow, regulates her breathing and settles her pounding heart. Just being able to touch him freely is such pleasure. It was so rare to touch or be touched in a life of service. Willingly, at any rate. Her illness had sharpened her perspective, forced her to examine her life dispassionately, to acknowledge all that she lacked, all that she had sacrificed over the years. But he's given it back to her tenfold. She sees love when she looks in his eyes, feels it when he touches her (and he cannot keep from touching her, which gives her an awful smug air, something she always hated about married women but now understands perfectly). Their life together is like a dream, something hoped for but wholly unexpected. And he is a revelation. She never thought he could unbend so far as he has. Never thought he could unbend period, but she thought she could live with it, with his fixed rigidity, and be quite content, quite happy. But this she had not expected. She had seen some tenderness in him from time to time, certainly, but seeing him in love (and that is what it is, he is in love with her) has astonished her. Whatever had taken them so long?

He's playing with her hair; he's fascinated by it, like a child really, and a small, satisfied smile plays across her lips. She stretches, catlike.

"Elsie?"

"Mmh?

"Are you…that is, I mean, have you any complaints?"

Complaints? Whatever is the man on about now? He's beginning to tense a bit in her arms; he's becoming uncomfortable. "Complaints? What sort of complaints?"

He ducks his head further into her shoulder. "Complaints. About being married. About…"

"And when have you known me not to speak up about something?" She laughs, that beautiful rare lilting laugh.

He chuckles uneasily. "You never did conceal the sharp edge of your tongue from me, but…" he trails off. He wants to know for certain whether she is pleased with his attentions or (here his heart seizes) whether she would prefer fewer of them. She has never refused him, indeed, she seems eager, but would she just be trying to spare his feelings? He knew she often concealed things from him in the old days to buffer him, to protect him. Could she be doing it now? Would she?

"Charles?" She shakes him gently. "Charles, wherever did you go? You're off gathering wool now. I've no complaints, if that's what's worrying you. None at all," she says emphatically, squeezing him to her for emphasis.

"It's just that when I was speaking to Dr. Clarkson" he begins.

"What?" Elsie sits up a bit; now she is beginning to feel uncomfortable.

"Well," he sits up now, tugs on his ear (a sure sign of distress she thinks), "I was having my annual, you remember, and well, I just wanted to be sure that everything was alright, everything was normal, and..." He looks at her; she's fixed him with another of her piercing stares. Why oh why can't he keep his damned mouth shut?

"And?"

"Well…it seems as though, I mean, of course I've never been in this situation before and I wasn't sure so I thought I should check and…"

"Yes?" She is growing impatient; what in the world has he taken into his head to fret about now? Their lives are nearly perfect as far as she can see. Whatever could be the matter with him?

"Well I wondered if perhaps we weren't, I mean if I wasn't, I mean we are frequently…"

"Charles, whatever you are trying to say, just say it and have done. We are frequently?"

"Here, like this." Gods, she usually understands him with fewer words. He doesn't have the words to talk about this with her, that's part of the problem. He's not even sure it's proper to bring it up, even between a married couple, but it's been troubling him ever since Clarkson mentioned the word complaint. He wouldn't force his attentions on her, he could restrain himself. He certainly did it often enough before. Of course now that he knows it will be more difficult, but.

She sits up quickly, gathers the sheet to her. "You spoke to Dr. Clarkson about us? About this?" She is flushed with embarrassment. She had thought there was something oddly familiar in the doctor's manner toward her when she stopped to chat with him in the street just the other day, but she had had no idea that Charles would have confided in him about their…she'll never be able to look Dr. Clarkson in the face again. "Whatever possessed you to talk to him about this, you daft man?" She is full on angry now; nothing, save him, means more to her than her privacy. A life in service taught her that all she owned were her experiences and they were hers alone, not to be chatted about by all and sundry, doctor or no.

"Well, I just thought, that is to say I was wondering whether, you know, given our age, my age," he corrects himself quickly, angrily, here he has spoiled a lovely moment between them. He should never have brought this up, or at least waited for a more opportune moment, such as when they were out of bed and clothed. "I just wondered if the frequency was normal," he spits out in a rush. Just get it over with man. Take your punishment and hope it's not sleeping on the sofa indefinitely.

"Frequency?" Her voice rises at least an octave and quite possibly a decibel or two. She can feel her face suffuse with shame. Of course he would assume there was something wrong, improper about their private life, something she had taken such delight in. But does he think there is something wrong with her? Her heart clenches briefly; but then how could he think that, she reasons, when it is nearly always he who approaches her? And whose idea was the kitchen, eh? Certainly not hers. And now it becomes clear. He is afraid, the silly git, afraid of his desires _(still_!) and perhaps afraid that she does not share them. "Oh, Charles," she shakes her head. "When will you learn to trust me?" He opens his mouth to speak, but she shushes him. "It's different now that we're married, I understand that, but I'm not all that different, am I?" She's speaking more softly now, kindly, and he is beginning to relax. Maybe he's not cocked it up too badly.

"No," he says shyly, softly.

"And will you trust me now, when I tell you that I've no complaints? None whatsoever?"

He nods his head, unable to speak.

"And will you agree that there is nothing wrong or improper between us?"

Another nod.

She pauses here; the words are so difficult to say. It's easier, like, when they are laying together, but she's got to tell him in a calmer moment and perhaps then he'll truly believe it. "I love you. I've always loved you. And I'm very happy, very content with our life together. I've no complaints, Charles. Truly." He looks up and smiles at her.

"When you say it like that, I suppose I've no choice but to believe you."

"Good, you great bleeding idiot! Promise me you'll talk to me first? Don't go telling tales on me, even if it is only the doctor, alright?

"Alright." He reaches for her, kisses her, a long lovely kiss that contains all the words he cannot bring himself to speak. _I love you, I want you too much and I'm afraid, but I understand now, a bit. It's alright, we're alright._


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Major fluff alert. In some ways, this is more embarrassing than the M-rated chapters. I sincerely hope your teeth don't rot out.**

She's read through the letter he brought in from the afternoon's post. Read and re-read, must be a dozen times, and now she's biting her lip. He noticed it was from Scotland, recognized the handwriting as her sister's. He's hesitant to ask; if it's bad news, she'll tell him in her own time, he supposes. Or should he inquire now that they are married? She had said she no longer had to keep so many things private. It's situations like these that irritate him, frustrate him. He knew how to attend the family, he was able to anticipate their wants before they formed the thought themselves. It was so easy with them. They only ever wanted things. But with Elsie, his Elsie, whom he knows more thoroughly, more intimately, he is perplexed, unsure. It's maddening. She shifts in her chair, worrying her bottom lip. She can never know the effect that has on him, that such a seemingly insignificant sign of her vulnerability makes him weak in the knees. She catches him staring at her in the firelight and smiles, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"Everything alright?"

"Hm?"

"Your letter. I noticed you received a letter today and I was merely inquiring as to whether the news is good or bad." Oh he hates it when he goes all stiff and formal like this, but he can't seem to help it. He feels apart from her, distant, and the cause of it is this damned letter. He had wanted her sister at the wedding, but Elsie refused to wait. "No time," she had said in that perfunctory way of hers which effectively silenced all further discussion. He'd seen letters pass between them for 15-odd years now. Nothing alarming in either amount or frequency; certainly more personal correspondence than he received, but then he'd been an only child. All his relatives were dead and any old friends or acquaintances lost through the years; he was not exaggerating when he claimed the Crawleys were the only family he'd got. At least officially. At least until she came into his life. Her secrecy was an irritant. For heaven sake's, man, she's only just gotten the letter. Give it time.

"Oh," and she sounds as though she's just come back from a great distance, "oh, yes, the letter. Good news, mostly." And she turns her face back toward the fire, staring intently at the flames.

He notices she is holding the letter so tightly that she's crumpling the edges.

"Mostly?" She's thrown him a line, wittingly or no, and he's bound to take it. He's like a dog with a bone; he's got to dig this out.

"There always seems to be something amiss on the farm, at least where my sister's concerned." She smiles ruefully. "There's always something."

"Well that doesn't sound too serious."

"Nooo…it's the rest of her letter." She trails off again, ill at ease.

"The rest?"

"Well, we've been married over three months now," and she gives him a small, shy smile, "and my sister is wondering when we'll ever get up to Scotland for a visit."

All this fuss and bother over whether to visit her family? Is that all? You daft man, getting all churned up over nothing. "Well, yes, I can see why she would want us to come. Baby sister and all," he teases. "Wants to be sure this husband actually exists."

She smirks at him, then starts in on her bloody lower lip again. Whatever could be the matter? Could she not want her sister to meet him? Could she be embarrassed by him in some way? That wouldn't be possible, would it?

"You don't want to go?" he asks tentatively, carefully.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind seeing the home place again, Charles. It would be lovely, in fact, but…"

"But what? Surely you're not concerned about the cost? I'm sure we could make the trip very economically." He sighs, relieved. She always was one to fret over the practical matters of life.

"No, no. I know we could afford the trip. It's just…"

"Just what?" Now they are back to the beginning and he nearly groans aloud with frustration.

"Well, Charles, you know I was a farm girl, nothing very grand, and it's been so long since I've been back, no telling what the farm is like now. I've had descriptions over the years, and if I know my sister, she's made some improvements, but…"

"But what, Elsie? Spit it out! Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?"

Her head snaps up. "What on earth are you talking about? It's you who might be embarrassed… or worse," she says darkly. "Oh, this is ridiculous." She gets up and takes a turn around the room. "You're very grand, Mr. Carson, and my family is very…not." She's wringing her hands now, another sure sign of distress. "What if you came to regret connecting yourself to…" He rises immediately and gathers her in a fierce hug.

"Elisabeth Mary Carson, are you as daft as a brush? When have you ever had betters the whole of your life? Certainly not I. Besides, I'm not _Mr. Carson_ anymore." He pushes away from her so he can see her face. "I'm only a jumped-up stable boy desperately in love with a beautiful lass the next farm over." He kisses, takes her lower lip in his mouth and nibbles it gently. She pulls away from him and tilts her head in that blastedly charming way she has.

"I take it this means you'll accompany me to Scotland?"

"With pleasure, my dear girl. With pleasure." And his heart rises as he listens to her laughter.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: In which Carson waggles his eyebrows. Why? He just feels like an eyebrow waggler to me. Hope you enjoy!**

She bustles around the cottage, inspecting the bedroom and bath, ensuring that the kitchen is as spotless as the left it after their breakfast, checking and re-checking the windows, the back door.

He watches her, amused and touched. "It's time, Elsie."

She looks up, startled. "It can't be. We've at least another fifteen minutes."

He pulls his pocket watch out to show her. "No, my dear, our train leaves at 10:15; we'd do well to leave right now. Where is your bag?"

"It's right by the door where I left it," she says, a bit sharpish. She's a bundle of nerves and there's no reason for it.

"I see it. Have you got the tickets?"

"They're right here in my handbag, Charles. Honestly, you'd think this was the first time I'd ever been on a train."

"Well, it's the first time I've ever been on a train with you." That catches her up short, he thinks smugly. "Come along, then, Elsie. Wouldn't want to be late." He ushers her out the door with a gentle nudge at the small of her back. He can do these kinds of things now without compunction. He takes a very great pleasure in pulling her arm through his as they walk through the village or guiding her along with a hand at her elbow. He even takes her hand in church from time to time. Another unexpected delight in being married.

*CE*

They're seated on the train now with a compartment to themselves. She's settling in, sorting out her handbag, fidgeting. He puts a hand over hers and squeezes gently. She looks up at him and smiles weakly.

"Surely you're not nervous, Elsie?" He leans in, whispers warmly in her ear. "Afraid I won't pass muster with your sister and her husband?"

She stiffens; she never did take being teased very well. "Certainly not, Charles. I only hope they'll meet with your standards."

Not this again. Every time he thought they'd sorted it out, it came up again. She wasn't going to be convinced until he actually met Moira and Donal. There's a nephew, too, if he's not mistaken. Tavey, is it? He has a wife. And quite possibly children. He sighs, takes her hand to his lips and presses them gently to her skin. She smiles a real smile now, a true one, and he's pleased. "You look lovely in green; it suits you." She looks away, flustered.

"And my hat, Mr. Carson, do you approve of my hat?" she says after a few moments.

Ah good, she's in a happy enough frame of mind to tease him a bit. "Indeed I do, Mrs. Carson. Very flattering. These new styles are very flattering indeed. But best of all," he leans over quickly and busses her cheek.

"Charles!" She flushes prettily and looks around to be sure no one has seen. She looks back at him sternly. "You oughtn't to be doing things like that, not in public." He grins, not the least bit deterred. "And," she continues, poking him in the shoulder firmly, "there's to be no…no affection of any sort while we're visiting. The house is quite small and," she trails off here, her nerve gone.

"You're worried I can't control myself around you? I'll be a perfect gentleman."

"See that you are." She settles herself more firmly in her seat.

"Of course, when we get home…" He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. She's fighting back a smile. "When we get home, it will be a different matter entirely."

"Well, we won't be home for several days."

"All the more time for me to plan our reunion when we do return." She turns quickly to look at him and he waggles his eyebrows lasciviously at her. She cannot contain her laughter now.

"Well, I shall look forward to it."

"As will I, Elsie. As will I."


	17. Chapter 17

As the train approaches the station, Charles becomes inexplicably nervous. _This is ridiculous_, he thinks. _I've waited on members of the nobility most of my life; I've been in the presence of royalty, for heaven's sake! There's no reason to be nervous. But this is your wife's family_, an insidious little voice whispers. _What if they don't like you? What if they think you're too much of a stuffed shirt? What if they cause Elsie to believe that?_ He shifts in his seat, clears his throat.

"Who will be meeting us at the station?" His voice booms in the quiet compartment.

Elsie looks up from her handbag, the contents of which she's been sorting and re-sorting for the last ten miles. "What? Oh, Donal will probably meet us with the cart."

He grunts in reply and looks out the window. Donal, then, The first one he'll meet. What's the appropriate etiquette for this situation?

"You're not nervous, are you?" He can't quite tell whether she's asking seriously or merely teasing.

"Not at all. And you? Are you nervous?"

"Certainly not." She snaps her handbag shut emphatically. She draws a deep breath and glances at him out of the corner of her eye only to find that he is giving her the side eye as well. She laughs in spite of her nerves. "Well, perhaps I am a bit nervous." He takes her hand in his and squeezes it gently.

"Perhaps I am as well."

She smiles as the train pulls into the station and stops at the depot. She stands, still grasping his hand. "Come along then. Let's face the firing squad together."

He smiles and stands. "That's not exactly a reassuring image, my dear."

She glances around and, seeing no one about, stands on her tiptoes and risks a small kiss. "It's the together part that's supposed to reassure you."

"I've been reassured by that thought for 15 years, love." He's rewarded by a look of genuine surprise on her face. "Come along then," and he pulls their cases from overhead. "Let's face the firing squad."

*CE*

Elsie scans the small crowd at the depot, looking for Donal. She's surprised by a tall young man who gathers her in a great bear hug.

"Auntie Els! We've missed you! Da sent me to pick you up from the station."

"Tavey, you great lumbering ox. You nearly scared me half to death, you did." She pushes him back and studies his face carefully. "You're looking very well, Tavey. I take it marriage agrees with you."

"I could say the same for you, Auntie," he says cheekily. "And where is your man?" He looks about for anyone fitting the meager description that his mam gave him. "You've not made him up, have you, Auntie?"

Elsie swats him on the arm and turns about. She spots Charles a few paces back; he's stepped away to give them a few moments of privacy. She gives him a smile and a shake of her head and he moves forward, waiting to be presented to her nephew. "Tavey, may I present Mr. Carson? Mr. Carson, this is my nephew, Tavey." She rushes through the introduction, unsure whether it's right to be so stiff and formal. She just doesn't know, and it irritates her to be so unsettled.

"I'm that pleased to meet you, Mr. Carson," says Tavey, and extends a hand.

Charles shakes hands with the lad. "As I am, Tavey. And please, call me Charles."

"Uncle Charles?" he asks slyly. Elsie swats him again.

"None of your cheek, Tavey lad. Now where is the cart so we can be off?"

"Follow me. I'll have you out to the farm in no time and in one piece, or Mam'll have my hide." He starts off, then turns suddenly. "Oh, I forgot. Let me take those bags, Mr. Carson." He bounds back towards them, frisky as a young colt. He takes the bags from Charles. "Come along, then. Mam's that anxious to see you."

Charles smiles weakly and takes Elsie's arm. "Shall we?"

She pats his hand lovingly. "One down, three to go. You're doing just fine, _Uncle Charles_."

He gives her a shocked look, then smiles wickedly. "Careful, my lass. I don't want to have to swat you. At least not yet."

Now it's her turn to be shocked. "Charles Carson, I never..."

He leans down to whisper warmly in her ear. "You might. When we get home, that is."

"None of your cheek, now, Mr. Carson. All of that will have to wait until we get home."

He smiles, rubs his thumb along her arm. "Then let's get on, love." They follow Tavey to the cart and he helps her in, settles her carefully in the seat, then steps up to join her.

"Ready to go home, Auntie?"

She steals a glance at Charles, his face happy and relaxed. Her heart lifts at the sight. "Ready, my lad. Let's be off, then."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I struggled with this update. I cannot get Moira to warm up to Charles. Not yet, anyway. Hope you enjoy!

Tavey stops the cart in front of a low-slung limestone farmhouse with a slate roof, well-kept and neat. There are a few chickens diligently pecking the grass and an orange tabby is curled in the sunny spot at the bottom of the worn stone steps. A tall, angular woman wearing a brilliant white apron steps through the door, shading her eyes against the sun. He feels Elsie sit straighter and he straightens his shoulders, mimicking his wife unconsciously. Elsie's sister, Moira, he's sure of it, smooths the front of her apron and smiles a greeting. It's clear she's pleased to see Elsie, but there's a note of apprehension as well, a recognition of the unknown. Tavey jumps down from the cart and sprints to the back to retrieve the bags. Charles comes to himself then, steps down from the cart and turns to help Elsie down. She smiles down at him reassuringly, squeezes his hand. He smiles in reply, a weak, watery thing, but it's the best he can do. He's not been this nervous since he proposed. Ridiculous.

"Well, I brought 'em, Mam, and in one piece, as you see. Auntie Els is blooming, and..."

"Enough of that nonsense, lad." Moira cuts him off before he can say anything else. "Make yourself useful and take those bags into the spare room. Then you can run and get your Da. It'll be time to eat soon."

Elsie steps in before things can get worse._ If they can get any worse,_ she thinks darkly. _What must Charles think?_ "Moira, may I present my husband, Mr. Carson." Her voice doesn't waver a bit. Why should she be nervous? She's a grown woman, for heaven's sake. Moira's not her mam, after all.

Charles steps forward smoothly. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Brodie. I hope you'll call me Charles."

Moira nods stiffly. "Aye, I will, and you'll call me Moira. Won't you come in? No need to stand in the yard." She turns abruptly and enters the house. Elsie turns to Charles and pulls a face; he nearly laughs aloud, then with a formal bow he ushers her into the house.

*CE*

They are all seated around a table that is practically groaning with food: stewed chicken, broiled mutton, potatoes, turnips and greens, apple preserves, bannock. His plate is piled high; he's afraid to refuse anything that Moira has served him. He'd even eat haggis if he thought it would help. He glances at Elsie, who looks so cool and dignified and yet happy and relaxed. This is a different Elsie and he's grateful for the chance to see her like this, surrounded by her family. Donal is a kind man, warm and welcoming. He's made Charles feel welcome, at home here in this lovely old farmhouse whose stone was laid by Elsie's great-great grandda. And Tavey; Tavey's such a handsome lad, so full of life, making sly asides that cause them laugh in spite of themselves. His wife Janet is a lovely young lass and he thinks of what Elsie must have been at her age, what they might have been together, but this is no time for thoughts like those. They have a child, a young son, whose face he saw peeping around his mother's skirts. He curses himself for forgetting peppermints. He always used to carry peppermints in his pockets for the young ladies. He must be getting soft in the head to forget something like that. Perhaps they'll walk to the village tomorrow and he can make a purchase or two. Conversation is dragging now, and the silence is not uncomfortable, but it is not yet companionable. Not yet.

Donal pushes back from the table. "So, Charles, would you like to see some of the place?"

Charles puts his fork down immediately and pushes his chair back. "I would, Donal, very much." Elsie looks up at him, a question in her eyes. He smiles down at her, squeezes her shoulder. "I would very much enjoy seeing the farm."

"Alright, then. Ladies, we'll take our leave. Coming, Tavey?"

"Oh, aye, Da. I'll be along directly."

The two men leave, Donal letting Charles go first through the door, telling him a bit about the acreage, the livestock as they walk through the house. Elsie looks after them with fondness, only the merest trace of a frown. Tavey reaches around to kiss her on the cheek. "Don't worry, Auntie. He'll be fine. I'll look after 'im meself."

"Your cheek, Tavey! Mr. Carson's been on a farm before, for heaven's sake. Go along with you." She stands and begins to clear the table.

Tavey laughs, chucks his young son under the chin and makes to leave. "Can I go with you Da?"

"Sure. At least to the barn, lad." He looks at Janet. "If it's alright with your mam."

Janet smiles affectionately at the boy's pleading face. "Be off, then, the pair of you. We've work to do in here."

They don't need to be told twice and the women laugh at the picture they make. Elsie starts carrying dishes to the kitchen.

"Now, then," says Moira, "we can have a proper talk."


	19. Chapter 19

Tavey's left the two of them leaning against a fence rail, staring out at the green green grass and the sheep dotting the pasture. It's a rare moment of peace. Charles knows something of farm life, a very little something, but still, it's enough to appreciate the time that Donal is spending with him.

"So, you've been most of your life at the Abbey?"

Charles nods. "Most. I went off as a young lad to find my fortune, only to discover it was right where I left it."

Donal grunts. "I never wanted to leave Argyll. O' course I had everything here a man could want. Knew I was going to marry Moira right from the start. Took a bit to persuade her, but I managed." He laughs heartily and Charles chuckles politely. He wants to give Moira no further excuse to get on her bad side. He feels like he's there already. "You never married, Charles?"

"No , I've not been married before."

"How long did you and Elsie work together?"

"Fifteen years, give or take the odd month."

"She's a fine woman."

"That she is."

They sit in companionable silence for awhile yet, enjoying the warmth of the sun on their faces. Charles feels that Donal has something else he wants to discuss, but he doesn't feel threatened or uneasy. It's plain they all love Elsie dearly, and curiosity is something he understands all too well. He closed his ears to the gossip surrounding his proposal and her acceptance of it during those last few weeks, not wanting to dignify the talk by acknowledging it. (_Not to mention the fear, always the fear of revealing how much, how awfully much he cared for Elsie and how desperately he wanted to marry her. It would never do to have them all glimpse the feelings she'd written across his heart._) But here it is different. Here he is with her family, and it's only natural for them to wonder at their courtship and marriage, wonder that it could happen at all, never mind how long it took. And it doesn't bother him that they see how besotted he is by her; it doesn't impinge on his dignity, his standing. Without her he has no standing. He knows that now.

"Moira's a bit, well, she's a bit…leery, if you take my meaning."

"Sorry?" He knew the woman hadn't warmed to him yet, but leery? Leery?

"Well, she was that put out not to be asked to the wedding." Charles starts to interrupt, starts to excuse the oversight, but Donal raises a hand to stop him. "I understand, I do, but feelings is feelings and women are women. And Moira feels more than most. She was right cut up when Els refused Mr. Burns a second time. Thought she was passing up a chance for her own security, like." Charles draws himself up, ready to defend Elsie's decision and himself, if it comes down to it. Donal smiles, a kind smile. "I see now we didn't know the whole story."

"I can assure you there was never any, any… impropriety," he says, fumbling around for the right words.

"I know that, for heaven's sake, man. I know my own sister-in-law. She'd as like box your ears for the suggestion. But. Moira's just trying to find her way in all this, that's all. To us it seemed so sudden like. She'd written about you, of course she had, and talked of you over visits, but nothing that'd give us any cause to wonder." He sighs. "All that palaver to say, don't worry." He claps Charles on the back. "She'll warm up to you soon. We'll give them a tad more time alone and it'll all be sorted. You'll see."

*CE*

The washing up's done, Janet's been sent away and they've finally sat down to tea.

"Well?" Moira gives her that look, that piercing stare that Elsie knows so well. It's one she often used with errant maids, arrogant footmen and obstinate butlers. She takes a sip of her tea.

"Well?"

"You know very well." Moira sits up straighter. "I want to know why you couldn't wait another week or two so's we could come to your wedding. My own sister's wedding and I wasn't invited."

Elsie sets her cup down gently, looks away. She's been preparing for this conversation, but even so. Moira never was one for reason. She feels so much more than Elsie ever did. Was ever allowed to feel, she corrects herself.

"The banns…it only took three weeks."

"I know that. But you could have waited a few days more. What was your hurry?"

She looks away, drops her voice. "I was afraid he might change his mind."

"Elisabeth Hughes, you never were." She reaches out for Elsie's hand. "One look at the man and you can tell he's bewitched by you."

"He is now, I think." And she smiles over the ways they've both been bewitched. "But then…well, I couldn't be absolutely sure, could I? I mean, he never even kissed me. Not once! Not until the wedding."

"You can't mean it!"

Elsie nods her head, tucks her chin in that way she has. "I do mean it. He was very proper, very correct before we were married."

"And now?" asks Moira slyly.

Elsie smothers the grin that threatens. "He's still very proper."

Moira sniffs. "I doubt that. Don't come walking in my house with that…that wiggle and try to tell me that things are very proper, very correct (_she's always been an excellent mimic_) between you. But what I want to know is, are you happy?" She takes a hard look at Elsie. Elsie lifts her chin defiantly. "Alright, girl, alright. I can see that you are. But is he…"

"Charles," Elsie says sternly.

"Alright, then. Is _Charles_ the reason you refused Joe Burns?"

Elsie is surprised, truly shocked. "Why on earth would you ask that?"

"Because I never could understand why you turned him down flat. Anyone would think you wanted to end up alone, with no one to care for you except those at the big house, those who'd do because they had to, not because they wanted to. But maybe you knew all along, eh? Your letters always have been full of_ Mr. Carson this_ and_ Mr. Carson that_."

Elsie feels that white hot flash of anger behind her eyes, pulsing in her neck. She clenches her hands to keep from slapping Moira. She stiffens dangerously in her seat. "How _dare_ you? I made a life for myself at Downton, a good life with people who respected me, people I could respect. Joe was a good man, a fine man, but he wasn't for me. That life wasn't for me. I have more than I ever dreamt of now and you can…"

Moira raises her hands in mock surrender. "There's my girl. I wondered where she'd gone off to. Now I know you'll be just fine."

She can't help it. She laughs and laughs and soon Moira is laughing with her. They're both wiping tears of mirth from their eyes when Charles and Donal enter the room.

"See," Donal says, "I told you everything would be sorted."


	20. Chapter 20

Charles looks with dismay at the small twin bed in their room. They might both be able to fit in the bed, just, but it would mean pressing closely against Elsie, and she had said, specifically, that nothing intimate or private should occur at her sister's home. He's not completely without control. He's not a young lad, after all. Of course he's slept next to her without making love to her, but he has room in their bed at home. He has space. He's not forced to sleep right on top of her. He scowls. Not the sort of image he needs in his mind in order to have a restful night.

After dinner, Moira made apologies for the small bed they'd have to share, but there was something not quite sincere about her apology. Something in the way her mouth quirked as she offered to make up the sofa in the living room for Charles. She almost seemed to stifle a laugh as he blundered about, saying no need, no need all the while studying Elsie's crimson face, her eyes looking anywhere but at him. He scrubs the back of his neck. Blast it all. He'll just have to show some restraint. After all, he restrained himself for 15 years. Surely he can do so for three nights. Surely.

He takes off his suitcoat and hangs it in the closet. He turns as Elsie enters the room with her hair in a loose braid and wearing her dressing gown. He stifles a groan. _It's going to be a long three nights._

*CE*

Elsie looks on the twin bed with dismay. She should have known, of course she should have. Tavey and his wife shared the second double bed now. Damn and blast Moira for making a joke of it this evening. The heat rose to her face again just thinking of it. How were they ever going to fit in this small bed? This bed was no bigger than the ones they occupied at Downton for so long. Why, they'd practically have to sleep on top of one another. Not a thought that is conducive to a good night's rest. It's not as though they are young, though. They've certainly slept all night in the same bed without…without making love, as Charles sometimes calls it. As for Elsie, she's got no words to describe it, although she supposes that phrase is as good as any to describe what happens between them. _For heaven's sake, girl, get your mind off that track. You're no better than the rams that rut in the pastur_e. _What's the matter with you?_ It's only three nights. Surely they can wait that long. Then, when they're back home, in their own bed, they can do what they like, as often as they like. She sighs just as Charles enters the room, that one curl loose over his forehead. _Oh, dear. It's going to be a long three nights._


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: So I woke up early and this happened. **

One thing she always despised was an atmosphere, and there is definitely an atmosphere in the small spare room. She is tense, prickly; he is uncertain, awkward. They avoid looking at one another; she fusses with the knick-knacks on the vanity; he pretends to hang his clothes again. He turns to her, clears his throat. She stiffens and curses herself for doing so.

"It's late," he rumbles, and gestures to the bed. "Shall we?"

"Yes, yes, it's late. I suppose we should go to bed." She fixes him with a steely glare. "To sleep, mind you."

He raises his hands. "Of course!" He takes a furtive look at the bed. "I think you should get in first; you should be near the wall, that is, in case…"

"What?" she asks sharply.

"Well it's not a large bed. I wouldn't want you to fall out. I should be on the outside, in case…" He sighs irritably. "Or perhaps I should just sleep on the sofa tonight."

"Nonsense," Elsie replies briskly. She takes her dressing gown off, hangs it on the post of the bedstead and turns the covers down. "No need for that. Will you turn out the light?"

"Of course, yes." He allows her to settle herself in the tiny bed, then extinguishes the light, fumbles toward the bed and stubs his toe painfully against one of the legs. "Damn!"

She giggles in spite of herself. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes. Not so sure about my toe, but the rest of me is just fine." The bed creaks dangerously as he gets in. That simple laugh has diffused the tension between them and she relaxes into him as he spoons around her. _Well_, he thinks. _We actually do fit in this bed. Somewhat_. He feels her body curl into his and he settles himself more firmly in the bed. "Are you…I mean, do you have enough room?"

"Yes, I do, surprisingly." They laugh together at this.

"I wasn't sure whether we would fit in such a small space."

"Nor was I, but I notice you weren't too eager to be out on the sofa."

"I notice you weren't too eager to have me out on the sofa."

"There is that. I've grown rather used to you these past few months."

He smiles, squeezes her to him gently. They lay together companionably for awhile. His breathing is beginning to slow. He is beginning to relax, the tension of meeting Elsie's family today is beginning to drain from his neck, his shoulders. She shifts against him, her bottom pressing into his groin, and his eyes fly open, his arms reflexively tighten their grip around her. Surely she's not doing that on purpose. He's learning to read her signals every bit as attentively as he ever read the signals of his employers. Certain gestures, certain looks tell him when to proceed, how far to go. _Get ahold on yourself, man_, he admonishes himself. _You're in her sister's home; her sister's small home, sharing a small bed with your wife, your warm, soft, sweet-smelling wife. Concentrate on three days hence. No, no that will never do. Count the silver, lay a place setting or five. Calm yourself._ But all the while he can feel his arousal growing. The more he tries to ignore it, the more urgently he feels it. She shifts again and he nearly groans aloud. This will never do. He's going to have to speak to her, but how? What can he say?

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"Did you ever, in all those years, did you ever…" she hesitates. This is sentimentality of the worst order, something he's always chided her about. At least he used to chide her about it, before. She never permits herself to look back, and yet being here, in her childhood home has brought up all sorts of questions. Questions she saw in Moira's eyes: when did this all start between you? How did you know? When did you know? Why did you never do something about it before? She finds she wants to know; she finds her curiosity cannot be redirected. It's clear they'll not get much rest. She can feel him against her and the fact that they are married now and don't have to show restraint, yet they are guests in her sister's home and ought to show restraint has her feeling very…very _conflicted_ about her earlier admonitions against showing affection._ This is childish,_ she thinks. _Just like a child to want something now just because you can_. His breath is warm against her ear, his body solid behind her. She knows, now, how his fingers feel as they skim her face, her body. She knows how his body tightens before his release, knows the sounds of pleasure he makes. Sounds she causes him to make. She shifts again and this time she's certain she hears a slight groan of dismay from him. _Calm yourself, lass, or neither of you will make it through tonight, much less the rest of your stay._ But there's no way to get away from his scent, his warmth. Not unless she goes out to the sofa, and he'll never allow that. Not that she'd want him to. She smiles, presses his arms more closely to her breast. The more she thinks on it, the more she thinks they could.

"Did I ever what, love?"

She'd almost forgotten she'd spoken aloud. She ducks her chin, embarrassed that she wants to know so much of him, even the parts that aren't hers. "I just wondered if you'd ever thought of us, I mean, before."

"I never allowed myself to think of you," and he kisses the back of her head softly, gently. "But that doesn't mean I didn't. I admired you, I esteemed you, but I never dreamt I could have you. Not like this. At least, I never dreamt of it in the daytime." And he pulls her impossibly closer.

"And when did it all change?"

Dangerous territory, this. He sighs. "I dunno. I suppose I was made to realize how brief our time is on this earth and how very much I wanted to spend the rest of my time with you. And you? Did you ever think of me?"

"The ego, Mr. Carson," and they laugh together. "I knew we were well-matched, but I never dared to think what might happen between us until…until I thought I was dying," she finishes softly. He tightens his hold on her and buries his face in her neck.

"I was so afraid," he whispers, and she turns over to face him. They kiss for a long, lovely moment.

*CE*

He is the first to pull away. "Now, Elsie, it was you who said…"

She cuts him off. "I know what I said, Charles, but I think we could. We could be quick about it, and quiet." Her face is burning. She's never spoken so frankly before.

_Oh, gods, _he thinks_. Oh, gods, oh gods._ He'll not last like this, not with her so close and now she's as good as saying she wants him. She's implied it before, many times before, but she's never actually said the words. He thought he could control himself, but he's altogether unprepared for this Elsie. And now she's kissing his face, his neck, burrowing in closer, as if they can get any closer in this damned small bed. He pushes her back.

"Elsie, we can't! You're sister and brother-in-law are in the next room and this bed." He scoffs. "I'm too big for this bed. I don't think it was made for anything much besides sleeping."

She looks at him, her eyes hooded with desire and he is lost then, lost. Whatever she wants, he'll give to her. Whatever he has is hers. She looks away for a moment, bites her bottom lip again. She looks at him again and slides her leg over his thigh, his hip. "What if…what if..." She's not sure how to say it; she hopes he'll understand what she's asking without words. She's wondered about it, wondered if there could be other ways between them. And suddenly she wants to find out very badly. She slides her hips over his and he automatically rolls over onto his back.

"What, what are you… Can we?"

"I think we could, like this, I think," she whispers. "Do you?"

He can't think properly, can't think at all. Once she sat astride him (_something he'd wondered about, dreamt of, thought about asking but was afraid to frighten her_), all he could do was grip her hips and nod like an idiot. "Quiet, we'll have to be so quiet. And careful, Els" (_he's picked up the nickname from her family, finds it suits her, finds he likes the way it rolls off his tongue_). "This bed," but his words are swallowed as she leans down, kisses him hard, opens her mouth and his tongue darts in, the feel of kissing him like cool linen, like silk. The heat between them flares and the bed squeaks as they struggle to take their nightclothes off.


	22. Chapter 22

__**A/N: Another M-rated chapter. I should also reiterate that I do not own either of these characters, nor do I earn anything from them but helpless, happy fangirl squees.**

_This is madness_, he thinks. His in-laws are right next door; they likely can hear all this rustling and squeaking. He's got to calm himself, he's got to get control, but how can he when she is sitting astride him, when he can feel the heat of her through his pajama bottoms. She's worked her nightgown up around her hips and she's undoing the buttons, smiling, smiling conspiratorially at him, at this game they're playing together. She's so lovely in the moonlight; it's a clear night and the moon is nearly half-full, so he can see her in spite of the electric light being switched off. In one graceful, swooping motion, she's pulled the nightgown over her head and tossed it (_tossed it?_) over the side of the bed. She crouches down against him, pressing her breasts against his pajama top, fumbling for the buttons to loosen it. His hands are roaming, groping, he's got no control over them. They're smoothing up and down her back, reaching down to cup her bottom, to settle her more firmly against him. She gasps, then she laughs, a quiet, evil little chuckle. She's kissing him now, kissing his neck and chest, anywhere there is skin. She's running her hands in delicate little patterns along his chest and she stops, tracing gentle fingertips over and around his nipples. She scoots down his length and tentatively, experimentally darts her tongue out, runs the tip of it along the tiny nub. He grunts and she stops, shoots him a questioning look and he nods to her. _Yes, yes, keep doing that, yes, don't ever stop, but I've got to be quiet, we've got to be careful, but don't stop, don't ever stop_. She leans her head down gently, rubs her face along the hollow groove between his nipples, and places soft, delicate kisses all along his chest. This feeling, this sitting astride him gives her such a feeling of power. She feels him coming undone under her hands, quivering like an arrow about to be loosed from a bow. He's whimpering now, actually whimpering, and the strain of keeping quiet is written in the tight line of his lips. He squeezes her shoulders, hard, and she discovers that she likes that, likes feeling his strength as he responds to her touches. She pushes his pajama top back over his shoulders impatiently, gesturing for him to move, to sit up just enough to slip it off, and the bed squeaks again dangerously, the sound of it amplified in the quiet of the house. No matter, no matter. That could merely be the sound of them settling in for the night.

She's never felt desire like this before. Perhaps it's because this is forbidden, taboo? Her family home and she's, well, she's making love to her husband in this new, this wanton way and he wants her. He wants her very badly now, she can almost feel his length throbbing against her. She feels like crying, curiously, crying because it's too much, too overwhelming. She has to move so slowly, so agonizingly slowly so they won't disturb, so they won't reveal to anyone what's going on in this room, in this small bed, just like the bed she used to occupy at Downton, only now she's sharing it with her man, _her_ man. She's never felt such intense longing for him, never felt such heat, such throbbing. She's enjoyed all of their intimate moments, thought she had thoroughly enjoyed them, but none has prepared her for this time. And of all times they must be quiet. Gently, carefully, she works his pajama bottoms down, risks a look at his length. He's ready, eager; she can't resist drawing a finger down the length of his erection. He jolts, shakes his head no, no, I don't want to, not that way, and kicks his feet to work his pajama bottoms down the length of his legs. She helps untangle his feet, then he pulls her up, damn the squeaking, damn the noise, he is inside this moment and nothing and no one else save her matters. She gasps as he sets her on top of his length, one hand to steady her, one hand to push himself inside her. As he enters her, she covers her mouth to muffle the moan that threatens to escape. This is so wholly new, so warm and full, she can feel, she can feel him filling her. He pulls her down to kiss her. She wants to move, she wants to move quick, fast, but he stills her hips with his hands, encourages her to rock slowly up and down, back and forth. She shakes her head, no, no I can't, I can't wait, it won't work that way, but he simply tightens his grip and forces her to slow down. It's his turn to smile now; he's helped her establish a rhythm, a slow rocking movement and the look of pleasure and contentment on her face is one he thinks he'll never forget. Not ever. He takes a hand, runs it along the length of her braid, that heavy silken cord. He pulls, just a gentle tug, but her eyes fly open in surprise, pleasant surprise. He uses the pads of his fingers to trace her pulse, then her collarbone, her breasts. She leans over him and he takes her nipple in his mouth, sucking, biting gently. She gasps in surprised delight, then whispers in his ear, _oh yes, yes, love, yes_. He is rigid with suppressed pleasure. All he can do is grip harder; he knows he's leaving marks, but he can't help himself. It's either grip her hard or roar at the top of his lungs. He doubts he could even do that at home. No sense scaring the neighbors. He moves his finger to that secret place within her that he longs to stroke. He can feel the sensitive nub change and swell under his touch; his fingertips are wet and sliding to and fro. He starts to buck his hips as she plunges down his length and pulls back up, faster and faster. She knows he is close; his muscles are tightening, his jaw is working against all the sounds he wants to make, sounds he usually makes. She presses herself against him as tightly as she can and moves against him quickly now, quickly. It will all be over soon._ I love you I love you I love you_ she whispers as they tumble over the edge together. One final push and they fall. Literally.


	23. Chapter 23

Moira bolts straight up. "What in the world?" She moves to swing her feet over the side of the bed, but Donal puts a hand on her arm.

"Wait, lass. Wait and let them come to us if they need anything."

"But that was a terrible loud crash. One of them, both of them could be hurt!"

"Likely only their pride will be hurt, lass. Leave them be. If Els needs you, she'll come for you."

Moira reluctantly, grudgingly settles herself back in bed. "What in the world do you think happened in there?"

"I don't know, and I don't want to know. Not unless I have to."

"But…"

"Goodnight, Moira." He kisses her soundly on the cheek and turns over, pulls the cover tightly under his chin and soon she hears nothing but the sound of his rhythmic breaths and some scuffling and struggling next door. What had that fool girl gone and done? Surely she hadn't tried to, they hadn't…not in a bed that size, not with a man the size of that Charles Carson. He could pull a cart and no mistake. She's winding herself up, ready to give the girl a piece of her mind. A broken bed frame it sounded like to her. Them at their age! Scandalous. How will they ever look each other in the eyes come morning? She'll never be able to dish up eggs and bacon to that man without, well, without laughing straight out in his face, truth be told. Now the first flush of anger has passed and the giggles have come on. She's shaking with them, trying to be so quiet so as not to disturb Donal, not that much of anything could disturb that man's sleep. Anything but a bed busting up right next door to him. She has to clamp both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. They'll all get a brimful at breakfast tomorrow, to be sure.


	24. Chapter 24

They fall with an undignified bang. Elsie bangs her chin against Charles' shoulder; his head knocks painfully against the headboard. They both let out grunts of surprise. She doesn't open her eyes; she doesn't have to. The bed is broken. She has broken a bed. She and her husband have broken a bed while…during… Of all things to happen! Why oh why couldn't she just have rolled over and gone to sleep? Why did she have to…and then the…and now the bed is. Oh gods. Oh gods _damn_. She'll have to face Moira. And _Donal_. And Tavey and Janet. Oh gods damn it all. It's a wonder they haven't knocked on the door after all that commotion. And she can't even blame Charles. He tried to dissuade her, tried to put her off and she… Well, and what must he think? Oh gods damn damn damn.

"Are you hurt, Elsie?" he whispers gently. "Are you alright?" His hands have already begun stroking her back and arms, cradling her head.

"No, I don't think so," she mumbles into his shoulder. She can't look at him, not yet. Can't look him in the eye. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I don't think so. Do you think you could…" he asks tentatively.

"Oh, oh yes. Certainly." She grabs the counterpane and scrabbles backwards until her feet hit the floor and she can stand and cover herself. Oh gods damn. The bed is a wreck. Charles is struggling to get free of the mattress, the twisted sheet.

"Do you think… could I have a hand, Els?"

"Of course, of course." She goes to him, dragging the wretched counterpane along behind her, trying to wind it up enough to keep her covered and allow her to help Charles out of the bed.

"Just, just give me a minute to find my nightgown. I'll never be able to help you in this," she gestures with disdain at the counterpane. She feels around beneath her. Surely her nightgown is here somewhere. Her hand lands on fabric and she grabs at it, hastily attempts to put it on only to discover that it's the top to Charles' pajamas. _Well, never mind that now. We can get the clothes sorted later. Now I've got to get him out of that bed._

She walks over to him and extends her hands to him. She braces herself as he struggles to work his way out of the wreckage.

He brings the sheet with him as he stands, wobbling a bit as he covers himself. Oh gods damn! His left hip has gone a bit wonky; he needs to give the muscle time to relax, but he needs to get the bed back together sooner, if that's even possible. Of all things to happen! He steals a glance at Elsie, who dropped his hand as soon as he was free of the bed. She is staring at the opposite wall; he sees her face in profile and her lips are moving, though no sound is coming out. _Oh my dear girl_, he thinks. She stiffens suddenly.

"Elsie?"

"Shhh," she hisses. It's quiet for the moment. She relaxes, but only just. "I was listening for anyone who might come to check on us. Maybe they didn't hear anything," she says hopefully.

"Perhaps," says Charles dubiously.

Whatever she thought she heard has broken her reverie; she turns to look at the bed. She shifts the mattress to survey the damage. The three of the four inner slats are broken.

"Oh, Charles," she covers her face in her hands. "We'll never be able to face them come morning. What must they think?" She turns on him, fierce. "You." She jabs him with her finger. "I told you there was to be no, no, (she drops her voice even lower) _making love_ while we were here."

Charles steps back, aghast. "You can't blame this entirely on me! You were the one who said we could be quick and quiet. We were quick about it at least. Can't be past more than 11 o'clock." A grin threatens to spill over.

"Charles Carson this isn't funny! What are we going to do?" She nearly wails and Charles realizes that she's as close to hysterical as he's ever seen her. Will ever see her, probably. He hobbles over to her, his hip is nearly right as rain now, and rubs her back, tries to get her to lean into him. She backs away from him. "Oh no you don't. That's how we got into this trouble in the first place."

"Elsie," he says in his most stern and dignified manner (even without clothes and whispering, he is still a commanding presence). "Calm down." She draws a breath, starts to speak, but he holds up his hand. "Calm down." He smiles at her: a loving, gentle smile. Her wearing nothing but his pajama top and an inexorably stern look on her face is another image he thinks he will remember always. "First, I need my pajama bottoms. Then we can see about repairing the bed."

She fixes him with that imperious gaze (less so, as she is still clad only in his pajama top) and flounces around to retrieve his bottoms.

"I'll need a bit of help to step into them, Els." She allows him to lean on her as he lifts one foot, then the other, easy does it, then she helps him slide them up. "There now." He turns her in his arms. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" She looks away from him, stubbornly refuses to answer. "Let's take a look at the bed."

"There's no fixing it; not tonight at least."

"Well then, why don't we just pull the mattress off the bed and sleep on the floor?" He tries to sound as cheerful as possible, though how he'll ever manage to get down onto the floor, much less back up again, is beyond him.

"On the _floor_?" She draws the word out for as many syllables as possible. "Even if we can get down, it's unlikely we'll be able to get back up again. Not without help, at least," she mutters darkly.

At this, Charles can no longer keep his temper in check. "Well, woman, what do you propose to do?" he hisses. "You say we can't fix the bed tonight, you say we can't sleep on the mattress tonight. What can we do?"

"Well, you can sleep on the sofa while I sort this mess out," she snaps.

He draws himself up coldly. "Certainly, Mrs. Carson. I'll be happy to sleep on the sofa. I'll only need a blanket. And my pajama top."


	25. Chapter 25

She flings a stricken glance in his direction, then puts a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. _Stupid cow. You never used to be soft. Stiffen your spine, girl, and send him to the couch. Or worse._

Charles sighs deeply and scrubs his face with his hand.

"Elsie, I'm sorry, love. I didn't mean it." No response. She continues to toe around the floor, searching in vain for her missing nightgown.

"Elsie, please look at me." Still searching.

"Elisabeth." He says it quietly, commandingly, and it is different enough, shocking enough that she turns to face him. "Forgive me," he says quietly, simply. And how can she refuse? She takes a step toward him and he meets her halfway, folding her in his arms and rubbing her back. She begins to cry now in earnest. "There now, Els," he says, still rubbing soothing circles along her back. "It's not as bad as all that, is it?" He hears an undignified hiccup from the vicinity of his shoulder. "Come along, love. Chin up, eh? We can't be the first couple this has happened to."

"But at our age. With my _sister_ next door! She trails off, uncertain. "And what must you think of me?" she whispers.

He pulls back, fixes her with a piercing stare. "What do you mean?"

She takes a step back, wrings her hands, stares at a fixed point on the opposite wall. "It was my doing," she gestures to the bed, then continues to wring the skin right off her hands. "I…you must think…"

"Elsie," and the way he holds her name in his mouth is an endearment, a caress. "Elsie, do you trust me?"

"Well yes, but…"

He holds up a hand.

"Then will you trust me now?" She is staring hard at the floor, but he sees her head nod almost imperceptibly. "Els, I love you. I love all of you and tonight was…" He exhales loudly; how can he tell her without embarrassing her, without relying on those phrases that are either too obtuse or too pointed. She looks up, afraid. "Well, all I can say is that I hope we can try that again when we get home. I'll just have to check our own bed slats beforehand." She laughs shakily and he smiles. "Give us a kiss, eh?" She moves toward him and he holds her gently, places a kiss on her cheek. "You're beautiful," he whispers. "A beautiful gift I never hoped to receive. I love you, I love you." He punctuates his words with gentle kisses to her cheeks, her temples, a soft final kiss to her lips. She hugs him fiercely to her and burrows her face in his shoulder.

"I love you, Charles."

They break away from one another, wordlessly pull the mattress to the floor, straighten the sheets, find the counterpane. She spots her nightgown, goes to retrieve it, change back, but Charles puts a hand on her arm. "In for a penny, love. Leave it." And she smiles, a real one, even a bit wicked and his heart lifts. They lower themselves gently onto the mattress, spoon into one another and soon they are warm, relaxed.

"What about tomorrow, Charles?" Elsie asks sleepily.

He squeezes her hand. "We'll face the firing squad together."

She laughs and pushes in closer to her husband, her man, and goes to sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: Thank you for all of the wonderful reviews. They have helped me keep the story going. There are a few of you to whom I cannot reply personally. Please know that I read and appreciate your reviews so much. Again, I do not own The Carsons, because, let's be honest, we all know they are married...**

He is the first to wake; it's dark still. He guesses it must be around 4:30. Between habitually rising early for most of his life, and, it must be admitted, nerves over facing the family at breakfast, he's woken even earlier than usual. Elsie is still sleeping soundly; she's had less trouble adjusting to rising later. He's tempted to lay beside her; she is warm and soft and he feels the early morning chill outside the blankets, but it would be best to rise now. Perhaps, if he is very lucky, he can catch Donal (and avoid Moira) at early morning chores. He moves carefully, quietly, rolling out the other side of the bed, gingerly testing his back and leg muscles. So far, so good. He's near enough to the bed that he can grasp hold of the post and pull himself up. An involuntary grunt escapes him as he rises; he turns his head (in spite of his stiff neck) and glances at Elsie, who is still mercifully asleep. No doubt she would want him to stay with her this morning, but he feels strongly that it would be best to talk with Donal first. He moves soundlessly throughout the room, changes clothes, gathers his toiletries and quietly lets himself out of the room.

*CE*

He assumes, correctly as it turns out, that Donal will be in the barn. He managed to avoid Moira this morning, a fact for which he is exceedingly grateful. With any luck, Tavey will be occupied somewhere else. It will be difficult enough to talk to Donal, a man roughly his own age and equally as taciturn. Tavey is young and full of life and prone to teasing. Charles could do without that this morning. He makes his way stealthily to the barn and creeps about, looking for Donal.

"Need anything, Charles?" chirps a bright voice behind him. Tavey. Damn and blast. He groans inwardly.

"No, no, that is, I was just looking for your father this morning. Is he about?"

"Aye." Tavey cocks his head in the direction of the barn. "He's in there."

Charles smiles in thanks, and Tavey grins back. "Terrible loud crash last night, Charles. Hope you and Auntie Els weren't disturbed by it." There's just the trace of a smirk, which belies the innocent tone in Tavey's voice.

Charles is saved from replying by Donal. "Tavey lad, there's work to be done."

"Aye, Da. That there is. See you both at breakfast," he says cheerily and turns toward the house. Charles can't be sure, of course, but it certainly seems that Tavey's shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter. Damn and blast. He turns to look at Donal.

"Thank you for that."

Donal gestures dismissively. "'Tweren't nothing, leastways not if you compare it to what breakfast'll be like."

Charles looks fixedly at a spot in the barn just about Donal's shoulder. "As bad as that?" he croaks.

Donal laughs and claps him on the back. "What are you out and about so early for, anyway? Can I do something for you?"

Charles scrubs the back of his neck with his hand, fidgets from one foot to another. As a butler, he was trained not to reveal his personal feelings, to show any emotion whatsoever, but here he finds he can't summon that reserve, that distance. It all means too much to him: Elsie's feelings, the family's good impression of him. He feels like a young lad called in front of his lass' father. This will never do. He takes a deep breath, steels himself to look squarely in Donal's eyes and say what must be said as calmly and clearly as possible.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: Apologies for the delay. Kept tinkering. Hope you enjoy the update!**

Elsie wakes early; it's still dark out. She's cold, so she moves in closer to Charles, only to discover he's no longer in bed with her. She sits up with a start; he's not in the room, either. She's pleasantly surprised to discover she's not as sore as she anticipated. Her back feels fine; she edges over to the side of the mattress and gingerly raises up, testing her hips. Her right side catches a moment, but soon she's able to stand straight. She shivers, conscious of the cold room and her insufficient nightwear. Scowling, she walks to the cupboard to see whether Charles' clothes are still hanging. They aren't. Where could that exasperating, irritating man have slipped off to? How dare he leave her to face Moira alone? Face the firing squad together, indeed. She sighs deeply; there's nothing to be done save dress quickly against the cold and help her sister with breakfast. How will she ever explain to Moira about last night? About the bed? She scowls even harder at the empty space where Charles' clothes should be hanging. He'll get an earful about this and no mistake. _Well, lass, nothing to be done but face the music. Alone, damn and blast the man._ She sighs again and sets about getting ready for the day.

*CE*

Elsie advances toward the kitchen slowly, as one might approach the gallows. _Get hold of yourself, lass. You're no coward!_ she admonishes herself. Moira is busy at the stove, her back to the door.

"Up already, your ladyship? I'd've thought you'd still be asleep after the night you had."

Elsie's face flames; she summons a curt reply, but none will come to mind. No matter; she hadn't the voice to utter the sharpest retort.

"Cat got your tongue this morning?"

"I…I…" _Snap out of it Els. She'll keep on digging away at you unless you take the upper hand. You know that._" I, that is, we slept perfectly well last night, Moira," she says, in her chilliest housekeeper's voice.

"You did, eh? Well, Donal and I didn't. Heard all sorts of racket last night. Sounded like a herd of wild horses in there." She snorts.

"I don't know what you mean."

"_I don't know what you mean._" Moira turns and shakes a spatula in her direction. "Don't play the shy young lass with me, Els. You know exactly what I mean." She turns again, shifting the frying bacon about in the pan. "What I don't understand…what I can't _fathom_, is how the two of you…in _that_ bed. Right next door, Els! Whatever were you thinking?"

Elsie wrings her hands, looks around the kitchen to be sure no one else is about, and takes a few cautious steps towards Moira. "I don't know, Mo. I don't know what we were thinking. Only, to be fair, it wasn't all Charles," and her voice trails off. Her face is burning even hotter than before and she's studying the stone floor very carefully.

"You mean to tell me that you…that it was you who?" She laughs suddenly, she can't help but laugh, really. Her baby sister. Her stiff, upright, unfeeling sister. Only, to be fair, Els did have feelings; she just never had much chance to show them. But still. Still. Oh lord, the laughter won't stop and now the tears are coming. She takes the pan off the flame and covers her apron with her face. Oh lord oh lord. Now she'll not be able to look at either of them come breakfast.

"Come along, then," Elsie hisses. "It's not as funny as all that."

"Oh aye," Moira manages to gasp between laughs. "It is. It truly is. Oh my wee dearie." And Elsie smiles in spite of herself when she hears Moira call her that, such a long ago term of endearment. "Give us a hug, now, eh?" And she dries the last of her tears on her apron and holds her arms out to Elsie. Elsie goes to her, buries her head in her sister's neck.

"I'm that sorry, Moira. We'll…we'll pay to have the bed fixed or a new one bought. I just can't believe…"

"There, there, lass." And Moira rubs soothing circles across Elsie's back. "I was just having a bit of fun with you this morning. No cause for all of that, now." And she pushes Elsie back so she can see her face. "I'm sure Donal can fix whatever the problem is," and she's tempted to laugh when she sees the horrified look on Elsie's face. "You must've known he heard as well," she says briskly. "Now, breakfast is almost on. Run and bring Charles in, eh?"

"You've not seen him?"

"No, lass. Is he not in your room?"

"No; I don't know where he's gone off too. You don't think he's done a runner, do you?" And Moira can't decide whether Elsie is joking or serious.

"Now Els, no man who looks at a woman the way that man looks at you would do a runner. Comfort yourself on that score. He's probably just outside in the yard getting a breath of fresh air. Why don't you go outside; you can call them all in for breakfast, though like as not Tavey's already at the back door. That lad can tell when I'm thinking about cooking."

Elsie smiles weakly and turns to leave the kitchen when Charles and Donal come in.

"Breakfast ready, lass?" Donal asks, smiling at Moira. "Mornin' Els."

"Good morning," she stammers, looking between Donal and Charles who is looking very pleased with himself indeed.

"Good morning, my dear," Charles says and bends to kiss her cheek.

Good morning, Charles." And for one horrifying moment Elsie thinks Moira will laugh aloud at them again. "Well," says Moira briskly, "as soon as Tavey lad, Janet and the wee one come along, we can sit down to eat."

*CE*

Soon all is scraping chairs and passing plates; all is quiet for a few blessed minutes. Charles relaxes inwardly, chances a glance at Elsie. So far, breakfast has been easy. He was quite right to meet Donal this morning; everything's all arranged. He and Donal will cut lumber for the bed slats right after breakfast. He's very pleased with himself; he's managed to fix things and spare Elsie any further embarrassment.

"You're looking quite chipper this morning, Charles. Well rested, I'd say." Elsie's fork stops in mid-air and she focuses very hard on a spot on the wall across from her.

"Thank you, Tavey. It must be that the Scotland air agrees with me."

"Aye, I can see Scotland agrees with you."

Moira picks up the platter of bacon. "More bacon, Charles?" And she fixes Tavey with a stern look.

"No. No thank you, Moira. I couldn't eat another bite." He glances at Elsie, whose plate looks largely untouched. He smiles at her and risks a stealthy pat of her leg.

"Els, more bacon? You've hardly touched your eggs!" she scolds. "Eat up, Els."

"Yes, Auntie Els, eat up. Wouldn't want you to come down with something, have to stay in bed for the rest of your visit." He has to look down at his plate, bites his lip to keep from laughing aloud. He knows he's gone too far, knows he'll need to apologize to both of them, but the temptation is too great to resist. Them at their age! Oh lord. He can only hope he and Janet are that lucky.

Donal stands abruptly. "Tavey lad, you've work to be doing. Charles, you ready?"

Charles stands, puts his hand on Elsie's shoulder and gently kneads the tight muscle. "Yes, I'll be right with you."

Elsie starts. "And where are you off to?"

Charles opens his mouth to answer, but Donal replies first. "Going to tend to a few things in the barn, Els. Give you and Moira a chance to visit by yourselves. Come along then when you're ready, Charles." He turns to Tavey. "Let's go lad."

Tavey gets up from table, shoots an apologetic glance towards Elsie and leaves the room.

"Well," Moira says abruptly. "Let's get these dishes cleared, shall we Janet?" And they both rise quickly from the table and hastily leave the room.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" asks Charles kindly.

"Not so bad? When I get my hands on that nephew of mine, I'll…" but Charles squeezes her shoulder.

"Let them have their teasing, Els. It's over now. Donal and I are going to cut new slats for the bed that should support an elephant of a man like me. It's all taken care of."

Elsie stands, turns toward him. "So that's where you went off to this morning. I thought maybe you'd done a runner on me." She smiles at him, cocks her head at him. He looks to see whether the coast is clear and kisses her.

"He's kissing her," shouts a small voice, the wee lad whose name he can never remember. Much hushing and scuffling can be heard from the kitchen.

Elsie groans. "Away with you, my man, before I completely expire from embarrassment."

He grins and kisses her again, harder. "In for a penny, love." He squeezes her arm and leaves the room.

_Foolish man_, she thinks, and grins in spite of herself. Moira steals up behind her.

"And you think that man capable of doing a runner on you? You must be daft, lass." She chuckles and hugs Elsie from behind. "I'm that happy for you, lass. You'll never know how I worried."

Elsie squeezes her sister's arm. "There's no need. I'm well supplied, as you can see."

"Aye, I can see that. Even a blind man could see that." She squeezes her one last time. "Come along then, let's get this sorted." And they clear the table in companionable silence.


	28. Chapter 28

They work alongside each other comfortably. Although Charles is less experienced with tools, with repairs, he is a quick study and soon he is sawing away on a thick piece of lumber that will become one of the new bed slats. The morning sun through the slats of the barn makes beautiful fingers of light, and Charles is surprised to feel contentment, pleasure, even, in this manual labor. He would never reveal this to Elsie, not ever, but he felt superior to Joe Burns, farmer. More than superior, more than condescending. He could never even admit to feeling jealousy, burning jealousy, when he thought of her arm linked through that man's, his hand on her back. He had felt such relief when Elsie admitted refusing him. Of course he hadn't woken then; his conscious mind stubbornly persisted in refusing to acknowledge what his subconscious knew to be true. He loved her. Powerfully, frighteningly, with a submission to her wants and feelings that was totally alien to him. So powerfully, in fact, that he broke a bed. He grins in spite of himself.

He's finally sawing in rhythm with Donal; _I'm improving_, he thinks, with no small amount of pride. He's pleasantly surprised to discover that he enjoys Elsie's family. In spite of his reassurances before they left England, he was afraid; afraid they would not warm to him and even more afraid that he would apply that misguided notion of class to them. And that doing so would somehow bleed into his marriage and ruin the good feeling and intimacy that he and Elsie had built over the past few months.

But he hadn't. And their intimacy hadn't been ruined. _Quite the contrary_, he thinks smugly. After all, here he is in this ridiculous situation with his brother-in-law and, far from being embarrassed, humiliated, he is curiously proud. He has to refrain from strutting around the barnyard like the preening rooster he's seen about. Absurd! They'll likely finish these slats in another hour or so, then perhaps he'll take Elsie for a walk to the village. He does want to buy the boy some peppermints, something. And he wouldn't mind a few moments alone with his wife.

"Coming along, Charles?"

"What? Oh yes, fine. I should be done with this one in just a few minutes."

"Good man. We'll have this job done within the hour, I'd guess." The rhythmic sound of sawing fills the barn. "Say, Charles?"

"Yes?" He stops sawing his piece of lumber in order to turn and look at Donal.

"Care to go to the pub with me this evening? A bit of time away from the womenfolk wouldn't go amiss, eh?"

Charles nods his head. "Certainly. A night out at the pub would be a welcome change." _Liar. You never want to be apart from the woman. And a night at the local?_ He shudders inwardly. He avoided the pub at home like the plague. Reminded him too much of his "years of stupidity." He never wanted to go back to the young lad he was. But Donal was family now, and likely Elsie would like to have a bit of time with Moira without him hanging about. Time to talk about whatever it was women talked about. But what would he talk about with Donal? Maybe they wouldn't have to talk at all. They would be in a noisy pub after all.

*CE*

The women are working together in the kitchen, preparing the noonday dinner. _It's different, this_, muses Elsie. _At home I would likely be peeking through the curtains at Charles in the garden_. A grin threatens; she takes a deep breath in hopes of disrupting it. Moira looks at her quizzically.

"Alright, there, Els? Work not too much for you, is it?"

Elsie is tempted to stick out her tongue as she used to when she was small, but she refrains. "Not at all," she replies crisply.

"It's only…well, housekeeper and all, it's not like you had to do much of the heavy lifting after a time."

Elsie draws herself up to defend the years of hard, backbreaking work she put into Downton when Janet's gentle voice breaks in.

"What was it like, working in a big house like that, Aunt Elsie?"

_Sweet lass, Janet. How she ever survives in this house, I'll never know_. "There's always some to do or other, but it were a rhythm, just like the farm." Moira snorts derisively. "It's true! There was a time for everything, and we always had it running like clockworks." She smiles at the memory. They were good together, even then, even before all this…other.

"Had you always worked with Mr. Carson?"

"No, not always," and she busies herself with peeling more potatoes. "I didn't come to Downton until…" she's surprised to discover that she can't remember automatically, "well, it's been over fifteen years."

"Fifteen years? I'd no idea," says Moira. "I hadn't thought it had been that long. My but time flies."

"What made you go for service? Why didn't you stay on the farm? I'd not like to be around all them people, all that bustle and to do." Janet shudders involuntarily.

Moira laughs. "Well, Els always was one for being different, weren't you, lass?" And she gives her an affectionate squeeze. Elsie gives her a shocked look. "Well, independent, then, if you like. You always did go your own way. And such a smart lass." Elsie pulls a face and rolls her eyes.

"Well you were. Always miles ahead of everyone else, even the teacher. Always so good in maths, neat in her work. She weren't satisified with farm life, neither. Anytime she had a free minute, she had her nose in a book. Still the same, I'll wager."

"Well, and what of it?" Elsie says archly.

Moira raises her hands in mock defeat. "Nothing of it." She turns her back, then says slyly. "I expect Charles is quite the reader?"

"He is. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, no reason. Just another way you two are alike."

"We're not chalk and cheese, but we're not all that similar, either."

Moira exchanges a look with Janet and starts to laugh. "What's so funny?" demands Elsie.

"Not alike? You're like bookends, you are."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. We're nothing alike; what are you on about?"

Moira shakes a knife in Elsie's direction. "What are you on about? Not alike my eye. At any rate, I don't want to argue with you about it."

"Good," retorts Elsie.

"I only want you to know I'm that happy for you Els. I'm glad you found your bookend," and she laughs heartily. Even shy, young Janet laughs this time.

"You're both hopeless, you know that?"

"I know what I know, and you'll not budge me from it. Now then," she turns toward Janet expectantly. "Let's get on with it, shall we? This food won't cook itself up." And for a long while there is nothing but the sound of quiet activity and small snatches of song as the women work together to prepare the noon meal for their menfolk. And Elsie is surprised, deep down surprised that she could find such peace and contentment. She smiles, tucks her chin so the others can't see it, but she smiles to think of her man and the pleasure he'll take in the food she's made him with her own hands. Foolish notion, but there it is. She's had enough of them since she's become Mrs. Carson. And the odd thing is that she doesn't mind it. Not in the least.


	29. Chapter 29

They are taking a leisurely stroll after the noon meal, her arm tucked into his and his fingers absently stroking her arm. He is full; he's eaten more in the past few days than is good for his health. He's relieved when he remembers his next appointment with Dr. Clarkson is many months away. Perhaps he can lose a stone or two; perhaps he and Elsie should take longer walks together when they return home. Home. He'll be glad to return home with her, of course he will. He enjoys their companionable routine, the freedom they enjoy, their own bed. It's odd, though. He'll miss her family. He'll miss seeing this side of Elsie; watching her with Moira, listening to them talk, hearing the occasional (too occasional) reminiscence has affected him more strongly than he thought. He hadn't enjoyed the camaraderie of a family in so long. He'd made that ridiculous statement that the Family was all he'd got, but he'd been so flustered when she asked if he'd ever wished himself on a different path. He couldn't admit it then, couldn't admit that he did wonder (very occasionally, on those awful nights when it was too warm to sleep and he tossed and turned, thinking) what it might have been like to have a wife and children (to have had her for a wife, her as a mother to their children). Sometimes he could get very angry with himself for wasting so much precious time, for allowing fear and propriety and social constraints to weigh more in his estimation. He was so different now, so changed. He hardly recognized that old shell. He makes a great effort to stay in the present with her, not to castigate himself too strongly. He knows he is difficult, exacting toward others, but he is even more stringent with himself. She was always the one who could cajole him, tease him into a better mood, make him forget. He listened to her. He always has.

"Charles?"

"Yes?" He looks down at her quizzically. Her voice holds a note of wariness.

"Are you sure visiting the pub is such a good idea?"

He had seen at luncheon that Donal's announcement of their plans surprised her. He wouldn't say displeased her, but it wasn't an idea she was entirely comfortable with. He could tell that. "I don't see why not," he says mildly. "Donal thought it would be a good opportunity for you and Moira to do some catching up alone."

Elsie shoots him a disbelieving look. "What?" She snorts derisively. "What does he think we've been doing while you menfolk have been out and about, tending to all your chores?" She falters here a bit. The bed slats were replaced before luncheon and mercifully no one had said any more about the matter.

"I don't know. He suggested it and I was grateful for his help…earlier, so I thought it would be alright. You don't mind?"

"I don't mind, exactly. It's just that I can't see you enjoying yourself much down at the local. There won't be much in the way of entertainment for you there." She worries her bottom lip.

"It'll be alright, love." He stops walking and smiles down at her. "It'll only be for an hour or so, I'm sure. It was very kind of Donal to ask me."

"Oh yes," she says hastily. "It's just that…"

"What?"

"Well, just don't let them talk you into drinking anything. And for heaven's sake don't let them talk you into drinking whisky!"

He drops her arm, indignant. "I can hold my drink, Els. I'm no youngster-far from it! I'll not embarrass you, if that's what you think!"

"I'm not concerned about that. I'm just trying to keep you from having a sore head tomorrow. Those lads in the pub love nothing more than to get hold of a stranger."

"I'm not a complete nitwit, Els, and besides, I'll have Donal with me."

"I just don't want you to get carried away."

"Carried away?"

"Defending the honor of the English." He gives her an incredulous look. She raises her hands. "I know you think I'm being ridiculous, but just, just be careful is all and remember you're not in England. And stay with Donal. And don't drink"

He cuts her off abruptly. "Don't drink any whisky. Don't worry so much, woman," he grouses. "I managed to live 63 years without your guidance. I think I can survive a night in the pub."

"Suit yourself, then."

"I will."

"Alright."

"Alright, then."

She turns stiffly and begins walking back towards the house. He puts a hand on her arm to stop her. "Els, come back. Please. I'm just not used to being fussed over is all." She relents and allows him to move closer. He snakes an arm around her shoulder and squeezes her fondly. "I'll be alright. I promise."

"Just so long as you look after yourself. That's all I ask."

"I will, love. No need to worry."

"See that you do," she says primly.

He laughs and kisses her cheek. "Let's keep walking, shall we?"

She nods her assent and he takes her arm, threading it through his own again and they walk on.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: The song Charles sings is called I'll Lay Ye Doon, Love, and appears below with liberties generously taken by this author. I had envisioned a song that was a bit bawdier, but the songs I found were TOO bawdy for Charles Carson to sing, even when exceptionally drunk on good Scotch and deliriously in love with a certain Scottish woman.**

They hear him before they see him.

Elsie and Moira had enjoyed a quiet evening. Janet put the boy to bed early; Tavey had gone with Donal and Charles to the pub. Elsie had managed to pull Donal aside and instructed him to keep a sharp eye on Charles. She didn't trust those lads down at the pub, not at all. Not if memory served, and it usually did.

Donal smiled, squeezed Elsie's arm. "To be sure, lass, we'll only go for an hour or so. No need to worry. I'll look after him."

"See that you do," she said sternly.

"Aye, that I will," returned Donal and he kissed her the cheek.

"Away with you now. And don't let on that I said anything."

Donal gave her a smart salute; _it's no wonder where the lad gets his cheek_, she thought, and he turned to leave the kitchen.

She sighs over her knitting; that had been nearly four hours ago.

Moira looks up at her; she'd been going over a pair of Donal's trousers. "Worried, are you?"

Elsie looks up, startled; she hadn't realized she'd sighed aloud. "Not especially," she says lightly. "Are you?"

Moira snorts. "Of course not. They're all three big enough and bold enough to sort themselves, I should think." After a pause, she adds, "Besides, it'll be good for Charles to spend some time on his own with Donal and the lad. He'll not have been able to make too many close friends, I should think."

Elsie stiffens, as she always does at any criticism of Charles. "And why would you say that?"

"And how many close friends do you have?" Elsie opens her mouth to reply, but Moira holds up a hand. "Besides me, I mean."

"Well," Elsie falters, "there's Mrs. Patmore. She and I are quite friendly."

"Oh really. And do you confide in this Mrs. Patmore, a woman you're so close with that you won't even refer to her by her Christian name?"

"That's just our way; that's the way it was up at the big house. You know that," she says, exasperated.

"I know it. I thought _you_ knew it. A man needs friends, an occasional night out. It's good for them. Good for us, too," she snorts. "Does he have any friends at home?"

Elsie worries her lip. "There aren't many in the village he can talk to, no," she admits reluctantly. "He has a few acquaintances in London and they exchange letters, but" she trails off. "Do you think there's something wrong in that?"

The anxious look in Elsie's eyes makes Moira curse her sharp tongue. Donal's always after her to hold her peace and she dearly wishes she had. It can't be easy for either of them, always having to be in charge, always riding the fence between upper and lower, not fitting in either. They'll have only ever had each other, not that they much realized it until recently. Now it's Moira's turn to sigh. "No, lass. It's not wrong. I only meant I was that glad that Donal and Charles have taken to one another. It's good for the both of them."

"You didn't think they'd get on, did you?"

"And what makes you say that?"

"Admit it. You thought Charles too much of a stuffed shirt."

"I'll admit to no such thing. Charles is a lovely man. Now, Mr. Carson, on the other hand. I might have considered him a bit of a stuffed shirt."

Even Elsie has to laugh a bit, even though it is disloyal. "Well. Charles is lovely; you're right about that," and she smiles at Moira.

Moira smiles back. "I can see that, lass, and it makes me glad. It's no more than the both of you deserve. How you waited as long as you did I'll never understand."

Elsie stares pensively into the fire. "I don't understand it myself, except to say it was there and it wasn't." She looks up at Moira. "Does that make any sense?"

"Well and from what I could gather Mr. Carson was always one for doing things right and proper." She's about to continue, but she hears something that sounds suspiciously like singing. Very loud singing.

_I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll treat ye decent_  
_I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll fill your can_  
_I'll lay ye doon, love, I'll treat ye decent_  
_For surely he is an honest man_

_I maun leave ye noo, love, but I'll return_  
_Tae ye my love and I'll tak' your hand,_  
_Then no more I'll roam frae ye my love_  
_Nae mair tae walk on a foreign strand._

Elsie jumps up, rushes to the window and peers out. The moon is full tonight, and she can see them stumbling up the road: Charles propped up on either side by Donal and Tavey, waving his hat around and singing with all his might. Moira's right behind her, doing her best to stifle the mad laughter that threatens to escape. Oh, this is a sight she'll not forget. _I should say being in Scotland has loosened him up a bit_, she thinks merrily. Neither Donal nor Tavey looks worse for wear, except for nearly having to carry Charles along the road.

_I'll lay ye doon, love… I'll lay ye doon, love._

"Oh for heaven's sake," mutters Elsie, and makes to go outside. Moira puts a hand on her.

"Don't go out there now, lass. Seeing you out there will only make things worse. Put the kettle on; we'll make him a nice cuppa." Elsie pulls a face, but Moira pushes her toward the kitchen. "Trust me, lass. Put the kettle on." Elsie stalks angrily into the kitchen, and Moira turns back to the window, stifling another giggle. _Now all I have to do is keep her from killing him tonight and keep the state of his head from killing him tomorrow_. Not quite the visit she expected out of her new brother-in-law, but who could blame the poor man, really? He'd spent all those years living for somebody else, through somebody else. He finally had the chance to take something for himself. Is it any wonder he's grabbing at life with two fistfuls? She sighs. It will be a difficult night, but she thinks they can make it alright. They love each other, that's for sure and certain. _And we love them_, she thinks fiercely. And she hums a bit of the tune he's singing (_for surely he is an honest man_) while she waits for them to make their slow, laborious way up the lane.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: Apologies for the delay. Real life has been intruding. Again. **

They manage to get him in through the front door, and he turns to Moira with the loveliest, kindest smile and she thinks that if she had been angry with him, that smile would have eased it all away.

"Hullo, Moira. Where's Els?"

"She's in the kitchen making you a nice cuppa, Charles. Why don't you sit down? Let me take your hat." Her menfolk are stumbling under the weight of this giant of a man.

He waves his hat airily. "No need, my dear. No need. I'll just mosey into the kitchen. I want to see Els." He weaves about and Tavey tries to steady him.

"Now then, Charles, my lad," says Moira firmly. "It's time for you to sit down, rest yourself."

"I want to see Elsie!" he says mulishly. "I want to see her!" He's so loud now that Moira is surprised Elsie hasn't come to him herself. She must be quite angry indeed if she's not out here already. Oh dear. Fortunately for them all he's not a mean drunk; there's a curl that's fallen across his forehead and his demands to see Elsie are more childlike. _I wish she'd hurry up with that tea_, thinks Moira. _Likely she's in a temper and taking her sweet time about it._

*CE*

Elsie's slamming about in the kitchen, opening drawers needlessly, banging them shut again. The water is taking an age to boil; not like her temper, it's got enough fire under it to boil ten kettles full of ice cold water.

_I told him_, she thinks angrily. _I told him to take care. And Donal! He __**promised**__ no harm would come to him. I've a good mind to walk down to the village this minute and give all those hopeless wastrels a piece of my mind._

She's not sure why she's so angry. There's no real reason for it, except that this whole incident will be a source of humiliation and embarrassment for Charles, not to mention the ungodly hangover he'll face in the morning. Reputation and propriety are so important to him; his good name and his station are so much a part of him and this trip has strained those ineffable qualities to their limits. He was so understanding, so good natured about the bed. Elsie flushes to think on it. He took all the gentle teasing with such good grace, and he was so kind to her, particularly. When he comes to and realizes how he's behaved this evening, even though she knows (and hears) that he is good and kind even when he's in his cups, he will be appalled. He might never forgive himself.

She hears him come in through the front; the daft man, he's calling for her. She instinctively starts toward him, then she shakes herself. The kettle's finally steaming. He needs a good strong cup of tea, at least. She makes sure to sugar it even more than usual. Poor man. He's going to need it.

*CE*

She walks toward him, carefully balancing a cup of tea and two biscuits. _Good_, Moira thinks, _she doesn't look angry anymore_. Charles rises unsteadily as she enters the room.

"Elsie," he says in a rich, contented voice. "Elsie."

"Yes, I'm here now," she says crisply. "Sit down and have your biscuits and tea." He sits again with a loud thump and Elsie puts the cup and saucer with the biscuits on the table, hands him the cup. "Gently, now, gently." He blows across the tea to cool it, then takes a tentative sip.

"It's sweet, Els," and smiles up at her lovingly.

"Drink up, then, and we'll be off to bed."

"Alright."

_Just like a child_, Moira thinks. Just like a child to be soothed as long as his dearest possession is near.

"Well," says Tavey awkwardly. "I'd best be along to bed as well. Goodnight all." He heads up the stairs two at a time, eager to relate the evening's adventures to Janet. Elsie throws a significant look at Moira and Moira nods briefly.

"Come along, then Donal. We'd best be getting on ourselves. G'night Els, Charles." She starts toward their bedroom, pausing to allow Donal to catch up to her.

"You'll be alright, Els?" She nods her assent and he leans down to her, whispers. "I'm that sorry, Els. I truly am. I never thought the lads'd go that far. I never thought _he'd_ go that far. I'm sorry." Elsie fixes him with a stare that speaks volumes. He lifts his hands in resignation. "See you in the morning, lass. Call for us if you need anything." Donal and Moira walk off to their bedroom and Elsie begins to bustle around Charles, taking his hat, loosening his tie. He tries to reach for her affectionately, but the scalding tea cup keeps getting in the way. It's nearly empty now, and the few biscuits Els put on the saucer have already been eaten. He puts the cup aside and rises, hoping to catch her in an embrace, but she turns quickly. He spins around to catch her, but reaches out for the back of the chair to steady himself. All of a sudden, he doesn't feel so well.

"Els? Elsie? I think I'm going to be sick."


	32. Chapter 32

She manages to bustle him out the front door, where he is violently sick in the rosebushes.

"There, there," she croons softly as she rubs his back, smooths his hair. There hadn't been time for a cool cloth, hadn't been time for anything except rushing him outside. He is finally finished and he leans against her heavily; she braces herself to absorb his weight.

"I'm sorry," he chokes. "So sorry, Els."

"Better out than in," she says crisply. "Let's get you inside and cleaned up a bit. Then we can go to bed."

He brightens at that. He is feeling a bit better now. If only he could get out of these stinking clothes and into bed with Elsie, the world would stop spinning and everything would be alright. He waits as she closes and locks the front door, extinguishes the light in the front room. She glides over to him, puts a soft hand on his arm and gestures toward the bathing room.

"The bathing room?" he rumbles.

"Shh," hisses Elsie. "They're all asleep, or at least trying to sleep. We have to be quiet."

"And quick," he grins, his voice slightly less booming. She glares at him, taking his elbow to move him along. This is no time to be having those kinds of thoughts. The bathing room is out beyond the kitchen. They'll have some privacy; _at least_, she thinks, _they won't be able to hear him quite so clearly_. And that's a blessing.

She eases him inside the bathing room and sends up a prayer of gratitude for her grandfather's eccentricity in insisting that a gas water heater be installed for the bathing water. This was the only thing she truly envied of Moira: being able to have a nice soak without having to heat the water yourself. She wonders briefly if she should put Charles in a warm bath or a cold. She studies him critically; his color looks better and he's a bit steadier on his feet. Warm, then, she decides, and goes to draw the bath water. As she bends over the tub, he comes to stand behind her, caresses her bottom and her thighs.

"Here, now. None of that," she says firmly. "You need a bath and a good night's sleep." She stands and motions for him to turn around. "Let me help you out of your coat."

"So you want to undress me, eh, lass?" He smirks at her lasciviously and she struggles to contain her laughter. _Oh lord, he's still completely blotto_. This will never do. It will take a firm hand to get him in and out of the tub. She can't be encouraging him in all this nonsense.

"I want you to get a bath so you can sober up, Charles Carson. I told you not to be drinking all that whisky."

He draws himself up regally, manages to waver only slightly. "I'm completely sober, madam, and completely at your service."

She snorts. "Well, then. Let's get you out of these clothes and into a warm bath, _Mr._ Carson."

He bows. "As you wish, _Mrs._ Carson." Elsie rolls her eyes and nudges him to turn around. She helps him out of his suit coat, turns to hang it on the hook behind the door. He unravels his tie and begins to unbutton his waistcoat and shirt. She takes each item of clothing as he removes it, folds it expertly and places it in a neat pile by the door. His clothes will need a good airing out tomorrow. There's no time to launder them before they return home. He's already unbuttoned his trousers and let them fall to the ground. He's forgotten about his shoes, and now his pants and shoes are in a tangle. Elsie gives an exasperated sigh.

"Slow down, Charles. Let me help you." She reaches out to steady him and colors only a bit at his mostly naked form. When would this never be new to her? When would she stop reacting so strongly to him? She shakes her head, then bends down to untie his shoes. "Here now. Lean against the wall and we'll get these shoes off."

"I am perfectly capable of standing upright while you remove my shoes."

"Humor me, Charles. We don't want you falling in the bath and getting your trousers soaked, do we?"

He grunts in agreement and leans against the wall, helps her toe one shoe off, then the other. She looks up at him, smiling. "That wasn't so difficult, was it?" His heart swells as he looks down at her beautiful, loving face and sends up a quick prayer of gratitude to the gods

"No, that wasn't too difficult. My trousers may present a problem, though. Care to help me remove them?"

"I think you can manage on your own, but I will help you into the bath."

Charles snorts dismissively. "I'm not a helpless old codger, Els. I can get into the bath by myself."

"Very well, then," she says briskly and raises an eyebrow at him in mute challenge. He nods, then steps out of his trousers precisely, almost daintily, one leg at a time. He holds them out for Elsie to fold and place with the rest of his clothes. His façade of the proud butler fades some as he stands before her in nothing but his shorts. He can tell she has grown uncomfortable as well.

"Come along, then," she snaps. "Into the tub with you." She edges closer, and he drops his shorts, stepping out of them and easing himself gingerly into the tub. She puts an arm around his back to steady him, and he sinks down into the steaming bath.

"That's good, then," he says and closes his eyes as he leans against the back of the tub. She retrieves a washcloth and soap and perches on the edge of the tub, fixing her eyes diligently on his face and chest. Only his face and chest.

"Shall I scrub your back?"

He smiles delightedly, almost like a child, and leans forward. She moistens the washcloth and rubs soap into it, then begins to wash his back and shoulders in strong, soothing circles. The steam has caused that one curl to become even more pronounced. There's something about that one curl, something that hints at a looser, less severe Charles Carson. It's a calling card for the man she's come to know. She scrubs his neck, then moves around to his chest. He's settled comfortably in the water, relaxed and smiling, so she isn't prepared when he quickly grabs her wrist and kisses the delicate skin there. He looks up at her, a wicked grin on his face.

"Join me, Els?"

She huffs indignantly. "Certainly not. Whatever are you on about, Charles? Of all things!"

He tugs more forcefully on her wrist.


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N: I don't suppose I've mentioned all the feels associated with Charles using Elsie's full name. The feels. Ugh.**

She's surprised by the force of his grasp, which causes her to lose her balance and nearly fall into the tub. She panics briefly, wondering how she can free herself.

"Charles!" she exclaims sharply.

"There's room for us both, don't you think?" He grins slyly and tightens his grip on her wrist, tries to pull her forward for a kiss. He's sloshing water out of the tub with each movement.

"Charles Edward Carson, let go of me, you daft man! I can't be in the tub with you and I don't want my clothes all wet. Let me **go**!"

"You know, it used to frighten me when you got angry with me? Did you know that? Then I came to enjoy your anger." He looks off into the distance dreamily. "You sound different when you're angry, more real. More like your real self, Elisabeth. And when you walked away from me," he trails off, sighing happily.

"Whatever are you talking about, Mr. Carson?" she says crisply. She's fallen back into housekeeper mode: stern, unyielding. She finds herself very aggravated with Charles; very aggravated indeed. She hadn't anticipated his physical strength being used against her. At least he's not an angry drunk, she thinks. At least he's not trying to force himself. He's just strong, perhaps too strong for her to handle alone. She doesn't want to call for Moira or Donal, but she may yet have to. She wants to leave him with some dignity, at least. She knows her family (their family now) won't hold any of this against him, but she knows that he will hold it against himself. Particularly if he remembers this. He'll not like to think of frightening her, even for a moment, even for a second. Surely she can chivvy him out of the tub and into bed. She only has to resurrect Mrs. Hughes; he always obeyed Mrs. Hughes (and in truth he obeys Mrs. Carson, but their physical relationship complicates this whole situation).

"Did you know that, Elisabeth? Did you ever know how I truly felt?" He's still got hold of her wrist; she doesn't want to lean forward to break the hold, not yet. If she can avoid getting her dress soaked, she will.

"I didn't, Mr. Carson."

He scoffs at that. "I'll never believe that. You suspected it. You must have done. You knew everything that went on in that house. Everything." He's becoming angry now; she feels his hold tighten. She begins to panic in earnest, but she must remain calm. It won't do to upset him further. _He is a good man, he's just had to much to drink, and when I find out who is responsible for that, he'll get a tongue lashing and worse._

"You're right, Mr. Carson," and she drops her head demurely. "I did suspect, but I couldn't be sure, could I, so we just went along, didn't we, went along through the years very friendly, very cordial. And that was good, wasn't it?"

"No. No, that was **not** good. Don't you have regrets, Elisabeth? Don't you regret all the wasted time between us? Wouldn't you have wanted all this sooner? Don't you want more time? Children, perhaps?" And at this admission his voice breaks and he loosens his grasp on her wrist just enough for her to break free. She scuttles back quickly, gets a towel from the cupboard. He looks at her, and his eyes are sparkling with unshed tears. _Oh lord,_ she thinks_. Now he's getting maudlin. Will we never get a moment's peace tonight? _And she thinks again of those lads in the village_. When I get my hands on them_… but it doesn't do to think on them just this moment. Now she must think how to get him out of the tub and into their bed. There is one way, of course there is.

*CE*

"Alright, Donal. You'll tell me what happened down at the pub tonight." Moira fixes him with a piercing glare. "The man's not used to strong drink; that much is certain. Whyever didn't you keep a closer eye on him?"

Donal shakes his head. "It weren't bad, until it was, you ken? He was holding steady, but the lads were giving him a bit. There's being English, o' course, but then there's Els, too."

Moira's eyes narrow dangerously. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," Donal drags it out. He doesn't want to say.

"Well?"

"Well, Andrew were there."

"Andrew?" For a moment, Moira is puzzled, but then her memory returns. "Andrew Drummond?" She sits heavily for a moment. She'd not wanted to tell Elsie, not thought it would matter at this late stage. She'd thought, as well, that they'd both stay on the farm, not venture into the village. Of course with Donal there, a trip to the pub didn't seem like such a bad thing for the menfolk, but she hadn't counted on Mr. Drummond. _Stupid,_ Moira thinks. _That were stupid of you, lass_. She sighs.

"Aye, it were him. And he were egging the lads on, egging Charles on, making sly comments about the village, about our Els."

"About Els?" Moira shrieks, indignant. "And what did you lot do?"

"Well, we hustled him out of there as quick as we could. Before things got too much, you ken. O' course, by that time, Charles'd had as much whisky as a right proper drinking man could stand." Donal scrubs the back of his neck. "I'd best go and have a talk with him in the morning."

"With who? With Andrew?"

"Aye, lass. He'll need a good talking to after tonight. It were wrong of him to stir things up."

"Does Charles know, do you think?"

Donal ponders for a moment. "He's a thinking man, is Charles. He'll know that something's not right, but as to how much he knows, you'd have to ask him. Or Els," he adds thoughtfully.

"She'll want to know, Donnie. You saw the look in her eye when you lot came stumbling up the path."

"Aye, she will." He sighs. "Shall you tell her, or shall I?"

"I'll tell her in the morning, love. Well. This visit is turning out more exciting than we planned, isn't it?"

"It is that, lass. It might be good to get back to our regular life, but truth be told, I'll miss 'em when they're gone."

"So will I love. So will I."


	34. Chapter 34

She holds the towel against her chest, then lets it fall open between her hands. She takes a tentative step towards him.

She deepens her voice a touch, softens it. "I expect your bath water is getting cold. Wouldn't you like to be warm and dry?" She swallows. _I feel ridiculous_, she fumes. "Would you like me to dry you off?" He stands immediately, causing even more water to slosh out of the tub. She'll have a time getting the bathroom back to rights, but she can't help but smile at his enthusiasm. He looks so young to her in this moment: water streaming through his hair, down his face, such a lovely sweet smile. He reaches for her, but he's still a bit unsteady on his feet. She rushes to him with the towel outstretched.

"Careful, you daft man! The last thing we want is for you to fall getting out of the tub!" She folds him up in the towel at the same moment as he crushes her to him. Well I'm wet now and no mistake, she fusses inwardly. She puts some space between them and begins rubbing his chest and arms with the towel. "Come along, then, my man. Step out of the tub now. Lean on me, that's right." She manages to get him out of the tub where he stands (surprisingly obediently) while she continues to dry him with the towel. Not thoroughly, though. She can't bring herself to dry him completely. She towels him off in her usual rough, practical way, but he puts a hand on hers to stop her, leans down to kiss her, but she pulls away before he touches her lips.

He grunts in disapproval, and she places a hand on his chest. "This is not the time or the place, Mr. Carson. You must finish readying yourself for bed." She is imperious, even stern.

"How d'you mean? I'm ready for bed now, Mrs. Hughes," and he winks at her. (_Good lord, he's teasing me! Mrs. Hughes indeed_.) It would be titillating if he weren't so drunk on whisky (and a secret dark part of her files this feeling away for another time).

"You may think so, Mr. Carson, but you must finish drying yourself-"

"I rather liked your doing it," he says slyly, and tries to pull her in more closely.

"Be that as it may," she returns briskly, "but you must finish drying yourself. You've no tooth powder in here, nor a brush and you'll need both before you're truly ready for bed." He pulls back abruptly, draws himself up with as much dignity as a giant drunken unclothed former butler can muster. He makes as formal a bow as he can manage, given the circumstances.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hughes," he says, only slurring slightly. "I would not want to offend your delicate sensibilities. She snorts. If she'd had any delicate sensibilities, this evening would have strained them to their limits.

"Finish up, then. I'll bring your tooth things and your dressing gown."

He looks down at her, disappointed. "Why do I need my dressing gown, woman?"

She laughs in spite of herself. "You don't want to go charging up and down the halls naked as a wee bairn, do ye?" She thickens her brogue on purpose, knows it delights him. She needs him back in a jolly mood if she's ever to get him the few steps from the bathroom to their little room. She turns toward the door, then turns over her shoulder, looks up at him through her lashes. "You'll wait here until I get back, won't you?"

"Indeed I will, dear lady. Indeed I will."

*CE*

Back in their room, she changes quickly, then grabs his dressing gown and toiletries and quietly makes her way back to the bathroom. The house has that hushed, silent feel that she remembers from Downton, from staying awake, waiting up for him. She'd not admitted it at the time, but those few moments of the day she spent with him were so precious to her. Those were the only times she could reveal even a portion of herself. It had been tempting, when Joe visited her at Downton, very tempting, if only because he knew her as Elsie Hughes. But she'd been unable to accept him, in the end. He was a good man, a kind man, but he wasn't her man.

She opens the door to the bathroom and slips in. "You've changed," he booms.

"Shh," hisses Elsie. "They're all asleep now." She gestures to the dressing gown she's draped over her arm. "Hang the towel, Charles, and we'll get your dressing gown on."

"Charles, is it?" he says in his best attempt at a whisper. "Whenever did you start calling me Charles, Mrs. Hughes?"

She rolls her eyes. Heaven's above, he's still on that. Well, I suppose it can't hurt to humor him. "Forgive me, Mr. Carson, it's late. I must be more tired than I thought."

He edges toward her, holding the towel in front of him. "And come to that, why are you on the men's hall? You should be behind a locked door in the women's corridor." He's grinning, and yet, the part of him that she's come to recognize, the gentle kind lover he's become is not shining through his eyes. There's an edge to his playfulness.

"You've been ill, Mr. Carson. You've been ill, and I've been helping you. Now, put your dressing gown on, brush your teeth, and then I'll tuck you up in bed. You'll get some rest then."

"I don't want rest, Mrs. Hughes." He's very close now, towering over her in fact, and she is… not afraid, not exactly. "I met someone tonight, down at the pub. Why was I down at the pub again?"

"A rare night out, Mr. Carson. Put your dressing gown on."

"I met someone who knew you."

"Did you now?" She guides one arm into the sleeve, then the other.

"Yes, I did. He told me he knew you _quite_ well." She stiffens at that, wracks her brain to think who on earth would be bold enough (cruel enough) to hint at something like that. And what of Donal and Tavey? Would they have heard as well? Surely not, or they'd have come home with scraped knuckles at the least. "It was a long time ago." He meets her eyes, and there is a fierce light in them. He grasps her by the shoulders. "It was a long time ago, and it doesn't matter now. You're mine now." His grip tightens on her shoulders. "You're all mine now."

She's unnerved by the strength of his grasp, not entirely certain how she'll extricate herself, but she senses something from him: anger, sadness. He only wants to be reassured, then. He only wants to be sure that she loves him alone. "Yes, Mr. Carson-"

He squeezes her. "My name, say my name. Forget all of that nonsense and say my name."

"Charles," she whispers. "Charles."


	35. Chapter 35

He gathers her to him, close. She feels the anguish in him, the sorrow. She doesn't want to hug him too closely, too fiercely; she can't afford to encourage that, not tonight, not with him feeling this way. Tonight she must care for him, mother him, even. She rubs his back in smoothing circles and gently sways from side to side, rocking him, as much as she can be said to rock this giant of a man. It's almost as if something is breaking apart inside him, this good man, this kind man, and she resolves again to confront the one who's done this unforgivable thing to her man. He shifts, begins to move in her arms; she loosens her grip, softly encourages him to finish preparing for bed. He shuffles to the sink, brushes his teeth, rinses. She encourages him to drink a cup of water; it might help his head in the morning. It might not, but it surely cannot hurt. She eases him gently through the door, along the corridor and at last they are in their room, together, private, closed off from the rest of the world. She turns down the bed, guides him with tender hands under the sheets, pulls the covers up, but at this he protests, starts to raise up.

"Why aren't you coming to bed, Elisabeth? Where are you going?"

" I need to finish readying myself for bed. I'll only be a moment, though." She gathers the few items she'll need to finish her own modest toilette and comes to stand by the bed. "I'll only be a moment, Charles, so don't you get too comfortable, leave me with no room in our bed, alright?" She smiles down at him so tenderly that even those who know her best wouldn't recognize her. He grins happily at her and moves closer to the wall.

"Don't be long, Elisabeth."

"I won't," and she closes the door gently behind her. The effort to stay calm and loving for him when she is deeply, inexorably angry leaves her trembling. Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow she'll interrogate Donal, Tavey if necessary, and find out exactly who taunted her man. She wants to know which of those wastrels down at the pub tried to sow the seeds of jealousy and discontent in him, tried to ruin the beautiful, loving peace they'd found in one another. Her fists clench and unclench reflexively. They could have no idea the mischief they tried to cause. If she hadn't told Charles, if he'd been any other kind of man. She shudders; no reason to think on that, not now. They could know nothing about a man like Charles. "Nothing," she murmurs fiercely. They could not begin to imagine the gentleness, the seemingly bottomless depth of feeling he had, for her in particular. They might have thought to have some sport with him, no harm done. Well, they'd have forgotten, then. They'd have forgotten all about Elisabeth Hughes and her unholy temper. That thought gave her more than a bit of comfort. She'd remind them tomorrow. She'd remind them and no mistake.

*CE*

She enters their room noiselessly, thinking him to be asleep, but as soon as she closes the door, she hears him rustling about in the bed, moving closer to the wall in order that she might have enough space to join him.

"It's been an age, Els," he says impatiently, childishly. "It's been an age," he says again, as if she hadn't heard him the first time. A half smile plays about her lips. The way he goes on about her, well. It's not only Charles Carson who has an ego. Not anymore. But she allows herself this small (not so small) pleasure of delighting in his attention. It makes her feel young, powerful, alluring, even. She is interested (she's always interested), and she knows it would take naught to gain his interest, but she'll leave that for another time. Tonight will be gentle, tender. She'll leave the other (and here she smiles wickedly; she turns her face for fear he'll read it in the moonlight) for when they return home.

She takes off her dressing gown, hangs it on the knob of the bed, and settles herself in beside Charles. He reaches for her immediately, and she settles him against her breast, much as she had the time he'd had that nightmare. She rubs his back; he places tender kisses in the valley between her breasts, tries to press against her, but she shushes him gently, croons to him.

_Thou'rt the music of my heart_  
_Harp of joy, o cruit mo chruidh_  
_Moon of guidance by night_  
_Strength and light thou'rt to me._

_Bheir me o, horo van o_

_Bheir me o, horo van ee_

_Bheir me o, o horo ho_

_Sad am I, without thee._

_In the morning, when I go_

_To the white and shining sea_

_In the calling of the seals_

_Thy soft calling to me._

_Bheir me o, horo van o_

_Bheir me o, horo van ee_

_Bheir me o, o horo ho_

_Sad am I, without thee._

_When I'm lonely, dear white heart_

_Black the night and wild the sea_

_By love's light, my foot finds_

_The old pathway to me._

His breathing is softer now, more regular. He burrows into her more closely. _He'd sleep right on top of me if I let him_, she thinks fondly, _like a great beast of a cat_.

"I understand, Els," he says groggily. "I may be drunker than a lord, but I still understand." He starts to struggle, but she rubs delicate fingers across his face, his back.

"Of course you do, mo ghradh, of course. Don't trouble yourself," she croons. "Lie back and rest. I'll be with ye all night and every night after."

"They all wanted you, you know. But I was the one. I was the one," he mumbles and he keeps chanting it to himself until he slides over into a deep, snoring oblivion. She drops a kiss on his head and continues to rub his back until she too drifts off, not into oblivion, but into dreams of anger and vengeance.


	36. Chapter 36

It is still dark when she wakes, and she has a crick in her neck from sleeping in an awkward position with Charles's body draped across hers as almost dead weight. He still stinks of whisky, poor man, and that as much as anything else ignites the embers of her anger. She's had a fitful, dream-filled night, fighting again and again with nameless, faceless sluggards doing naught but drinking and telling tales. The thought of them causes a throbbing in her temple. She must shift, she must stretch, even if it means disturbing Charles. She attempts to move him, gently lifting his arm, pushing his shoulders, trying to wriggle out from under him, but if anything he seems to settle more firmly against her. She tries to roll her hips, but he's too simply too heavy. There's nothing to be done then, save attempt to wake him, at least enough for her to shift in the bed. She kisses the top of his head, strokes his neck and face lightly with her fingers.

"Charles," she says quietly. "Charles, will you roll over? He makes a soft grunting noise in his sleep. She runs her fingers lightly over the shell of his ear. "Charles, mo gradh, wake up." And she starts to move beneath him, tries to shift herself out from under his weight. At last he begins to move, just enough for her to slip out from underneath. He mumbles something unintelligible, then buries his face back in the pillow and soon he is snoring again.

Poor man, thinks Elsie again. He'll feel like death once he wakes. She'll bring him water and soda crackers from the kitchen. And probably they should have a basin and some cloths in here, just in case. She pulls her dressing gown on and creeps silently to the door. She must check on the state of her dress after last night. With any luck at all, it will have dried out during the night. Of course, she can always wear her traveling suit today; perhaps that might be best after all. She's not a vain woman, but she knows she looks well in green. Charles always remarks on it, and even before they married she noticed that he always took a second look when she wore that particular dress. No reason not to look her best today. And she can always use the excuse of a still damp dress.

*CE*

By the time she's dressed and made the few preparations in their room for Charles when he wakes, she can hear the rest of the family stirring. Good. She wants to catch Donal early, unawares. She'll be more likely to get the truth out of him if she can surprise him. He'll want to put a good face on it, but she'll have the truth and nothing else.

She makes her way to the kitchen and is surprised to see the kettle steaming and Moira setting out two mugs.

"What's all this?"

Moira smiles tightly. "Thought you could do with a cuppa after last night's doings." She busies herself preparing their tea.

"Where's Donal?"

"He'll be out at the barn, I expect."

"I'll be wanting to talk with him directly." She turns to look out the window towards the barn.

"And why is that?"

Elsie turns to face Moira, an incredulous look on her face. "Why do y'think, Mo?"

"And do you not think Donal has told me?" she asks gently. That brings Elsie up short.

"Which of the lads was it, then? I have to know, Moira. It's important."

Moira pushes a cup of tea across the table to Elsie and gestures for her to sit down. "And why is it so important, lass?"

Elsie wrings her hands, then sits on the edge of the chair. "Because of what he was saying last night," she says softly. Moira waits for her to continue, but it's clear Elsie doesn't want to say more.

"And what was Charles saying last night?"

Elsie looks at Moira, her face twisted in anguish and embarrassment and anger. "They taunted him, Mo. They taunted him. Over me. He said…he said-" but she can't finish. She seems on the verge of tears. Moira reaches a hand across the table, holds Elsie's in one of her own.

"What did he say, lass, out with it now."

Elsie turns her face. "He said someone told him that he'd known me _quite_ well." She lets the words hang in the air for a moment before she faces Moira again. "I'll know who it was, Mo. I'll know who it was, and I'll tell him off for it. Today."

Moira takes a deep breath. _Oh gods damn you Andrew Drummond_. _Gods damn you straight to hell_. "It were Andrew, lass."

Elsie turns pale, pulls her hands free from Moira and grips her mug of tea. "Andrew?" she breathes. "Andrew Drummond?"

"Aye."

Elsie rises abruptly, takes a turn around the tiny room. Moira thinks of a bird fluttering its wings against its cage. "Did you know?" she asks, without looking.

Moira takes a breath. "Aye."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"No good reason to tell you."

Elsie whips around at this. "No good reason not to!"

"How was I to know the two would ever meet? And what difference would it have made if they had?"

Elsie gestures to the spare room. "You can see what difference it made!"

"I know that now, lass, and I'm sorry. Does he know?"

"Yes. Some of it, at least."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows what happened all those years ago, but he's not yet understood who it was that pressed the drink on him. It willna be long, though." Elsie wrings her hands. "Andrew Drummond," and she laughs shakily. "Of all the lads I expected to peel the skin off of today, he'll not be one of them." She stiffens her spine. "Well."

"Well what?" asks Moira warily.

"Well I'll be going after a bit. I'll be going down to the village to have a wee word with Mr. Drummond."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, lass."

"And why not? He'll be down at the school, I expect?"

"Not exactly."

"Not exactly." Now it's Elsie's turn to mock. "Not exactly. Will you tell me all you know and have done?"

"He's the superintendent of schools, Elsie."

"Fine. Good on him. Can I find him down at the school then?"

"No, lass." Moira takes another, deeper breath. Now it's Moira's turn to straighten her shoulders. "You can find him the next farm over, my wee dearie. He married the widow Begbie."

"Peggy?"

"Aye."

"Well." She sits for a moment. "I almost feel sorry for him." She grins wickedly. "Almost."

"Now, Elsie-" begins Moira, but Elsie cuts her off.

"He'll know exactly what he was doing last night, Moira. He'll know exactly the mischief he hoped to cause. Charles is, he'll feel-" she stops abruptly as tears spring to her eyes. She lifts her chin determinedly. "He's a good man, Moira. A good man who accepted me, who loved me as I am. He's a proud man as well, and he'll not enjoy waking this morning feeling foolish and ashamed. There was no need for it, for none of it. It's not as though we parted badly, through fault of his or mine. It was out of our hands and so long ago. Well. I'll be along to talk to him as soon as breakfast's done."

"Donal's already planning to have a talk with him, Els. You should let him handle this."

"I appreciate the both of you, Moira, but this is something I have to see to myself."


	37. Chapter 37

The morning is bright and lovely, and it should be a peaceful walk to Peggy's farm. She still can't believe Andrew had married her. Of all the unlikeliest candidates, she was the most unlikely. Elsie shakes her head, but it matters not. What matters now is facing Andrew Drummond, the one she'd described to Charles as kind. The thought of it made her sick now; he'd been kind then, of course, but perhaps that was only because he was getting what he wanted. Had he been truly kind he'd have talked to her man about the weather, about the farm, perhaps asked him about London. He'd have shown respect: respect to Charles and through that respect for her. But he'd tainted a precious memory and he'd mocked and disgraced her man. Tried to, at any rate. He had a reckoning coming and it had to come from her.

She turns into the lane that leads to Peggy's home. Their home. She is nervous now. The righteous indignation, the fiery anger that had been propelling her steadily forward has been replaced suddenly by an icy feeling of dread. This was a bad idea, confronting him at home. Whatever had she been thinking? What would she do about Peggy? She stops, hesitates along the walk. It's so difficult, this. Peeling the skin off errant footmen, cheating tradesmen with wandering eyes and worse, well, that was all in a day's work. But this. What if she didn't have it in her? Andrew always was a smooth talker. What if he talked circles around her, ended up twisting her words? She thinks of Charles suddenly: his kindness, his love for her, his pride in her and in himself (which was justified, more than justified) and Andrew had thought to tarnish that, to take away from something whose value he couldn't begin to calculate.

She begins walking again, more purposefully this time. She reaches the front gate and makes to open it, but it swings back smoothly, almost of its own accord. Too late she sees the hand holding the gate open for her. She forces herself to meet his gaze.

"Hullo, Elsie. I wondered if I might be seeing you this morning."

*CE*

_Oh gods_. The light streaming in through the window is awfully awfully bright. He tries to move, to turn his face, but that slight movement sets off a wave of crippling nausea. He shuts his eyes tightly and tries to remember, tries to piece the fragmented story into a coherent narrative. Elsie. Where was Elsie? He sensed, rather than saw, that she wasn't in the room. If only he could call out to her, but that won't do. He's not certain he has a voice anymore, but if he does, he's certain that using it, however slightly, will crack his skull like an egg. _Oh gods. How much did I drink last night?_ A sudden thought twists in his gut. Did Donal see him like this? Did Elsie? _Oh gods_. She'd warned him against drinking whisky, drinking anything really, but especially whisky. And he'd dismissed her concerns, assured her that he could look after himself for one night and now he's gone and done it. She's probably angry with him and rightly so. He wonders if she slept on the sofa last night. He couldn't blame her. He reeks of whisky and there's a sickly, bloated feeling about him. He cautiously opens one eye, takes in the pitcher of water and glass, the towel and the basin. _So she's not so angry that she won't look out for me_, he thinks. That's good. How can he make this up to her? To Donal and Moira? What if he behaved boorishly down at the pub, or worse, here? He wills himself to sit up, and with great effort he manages it. _Oh gods damn, I've not been this sick from drink since I was a boy_. Hazy images start to come back to him. There were drinks, lots of them, obviously. Congratulations on his marriage, toasts to Elsie (though that hadn't been strictly proper; a lady's name should never be mentioned in a public house, although she'd be the first to say she was no lady, but he knew differently—another way he'd shamed her last night). And then one man in particular asking after Elsie, how long she'd been at Downton, offering drink after drink. It had seemed rude to refuse; he'd said he was an old friend of hers, that he'd known her well during their youth. There was something too familiar about his manner, something about him, but whatever it might have been was eluding Charles at the moment. A drink. Water would be just the thing. He reached out a shaking hand for the glass and pitcher when Moira peeked her head round the corner. She said nothing, just glided noiselessly over to the bed and poured him a glass of water, which he drank gratefully.

"Where's Elsie?" Gods, even the act of whispering required supreme effort. He thought Moira looked a bit guilty.

"Out," she said shortly, but quietly at least.

"She's not here?" His agitation at her being gone made him forget to whisper.

"Calm yourself, Charles. She's only gone to the neighbor's. She'll be along soon." Moira definitely looked suspicious.

"Why would she do that this morning?" He drops his head sheepishly. "Is she very angry with me? I'm sorry, Moira, I truly am."

"Here now," she clucks, "you've nothing to be sorry about. The lads were just having a bit of mischief with you and Donal's that sorry he couldn't keep the drink off you."

"Entirely my fault. Els warned me about the whisky, but I didn't listen. Which neighbor is she visiting? And why?"

"Never you mind. Just drink your water and rest yourself. Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That's just what Elsie says when she doesn't want to tell me something. What is it, Moira? What have I done?" He starts to shift painfully in the bed.

"Now, now, Charles, I told you. You've not done anything. Something was done to you, that's all. But you're here now, and you're alright, or at least you will be. So rest easy. Elsie'll be back soon."

"There was someone at the pub last night. A friend of Elsie's he said. There was something about his manner that I didn't like, Moira, but I can't remember what it was. You're sure I didn't do anything to embarrass you or Elsie?"

"For the last time, no!"

"Then why has she gone to the neighbor's? She must be angry with me if she's gone off somewhere!"

"She's not angry with you, Charles, she's angry with the person who kept feeding you the drink. She's gone over to have a word with him!" _Oh I could bite her tongue in two. Of all the fool things to say!_

"With him? With the man who said he knew her quite well?" It's coming back now. Oh gods. And she's gone over there to confront him. Oh gods. "Is Donal with her?"

Moira shakes her head miserably. "No, she didna want that. But he'll be keeping an eye on the time, and he and Tavey'll go over in a thrice if she's not back by the time she ought."

Charles shuffles himself off the bed in painful, hobbling movements. "Please excuse me, Moira. I must get dressed."

"Dressed? You can't get dressed! You ought to stay in bed. Elsie'll be furious!"

With great effort, Charles rises, straightens his shoulders. "I must go after my wife."

_I must go after my wife,_ she thinks. So calm and dignified, and yet he must be in terrible pain. He stinks of day-old whisky and he has that sickly, puffy look of a man whose had more than enough to drink, and yet, he looks almost regal standing there with his hair sticking out in tufts and a faded dressing gown.

"Very well then," she says brusquely, "give me your clothes."

"What?"

"Your clothes, man, the clothes you're planning to wear this morning. Give them to me and I'll give them a thorough going over. And you muns take a bath, for pity's sake. Do you need help getting to the bath?"

"Certainly not!" he huffs, and Moira would laugh if the situation weren't three miles beyond laughter already.

"Aye, then. Get yourself ready while I do up your clothes. I'll have Donal hitch the cart and you both can go to the Drummond place and get this thing sorted."

"Drummond? Andrew Drummond?" His eyes narrow with understanding. Moira nods. "I see." He takes another sip of water, then finds his clothes and hands them to Moira. "Well, I'll just begin getting ready then."

"Alright lad. You'll call if you need anything?"

"I will, thank you, but I'll be fine." Moira turns, closes the door behind her and for a moment, Charles falters. He knew there was something familiar about the man, something nasty and unkind in the way he implied how he'd known Elsie. And she'd gone over to see him. To peel the skin off the man, more like. Well. He would follow her and offer what little help he could.


	38. Chapter 38

Elsie returns Andrew's gaze coolly. "Well, you could have had little doubt of it after last night," she says archly.

"Whatever could you mean by that?" He cuts off her retort by stepping back, pulling the gate as wide as it will open. "Forgive me, where are my manners. Won't you step through?"

_Arrogant, insufferable pig_. She steps lightly through the gate, then turns slowly to face him. _Think Elsie. Think_. He's trying to wind her up, make her angry, embarrass her. And Charles, for that matter. She wills herself to remain calm. So many arguments through the years, so many angry exchanges. She'd learned to control her temper, to use its power to the best possible advantage. A trick she's relied on many times in the past is to remain silent. Very few people can resist filling in the empty space.

"I met your husband last night down at the pub." Apparently Andrew was among those for whom silence is unnerving.

Elsie waits another moment. "So I gathered."

"Charming man; very English, though." He smiles disingenuously. "I hope you don't mind my saying so."

"It's been many years since I minded anything you said."

Andrew nods his head, as if to concede the point. "We were talking of old times, he and I. The stories I could tell, Elsie."

"It's Mrs. Carson now."

"So it is, so it is. And how long have you been Mrs. Carson?"

"I don't see that's any of your concern."

"I'd heard near about three months, is that right?"

"Very nearly."

"And is it a happy marriage?"

"Again, Mr. Drummond, that is none of your concern." Her temper is boiling now; it's becoming very difficult to remain calm in the face of his insolent, almost cruel manner. She'd thought to find at least some remnant of that lovely young lad in his eyes, but all she sees there is a man made bitter through time and circumstance. She's no room for pity, though. Not after last night.

"Only I wonder, you see. What possible reason could you have to visit me this fine morning, especially since you'll be returning to Yorkshire tomorrow? Did you want to reminisce, Mrs. Carson?" And he leans over threateningly.

She draws herself up in that rigidly beautiful way she has. "Certainly not. I came, well, I don't know what I came for. You're not the man I remember, Mr. Drummond. It seems I was mistaken." She turns to go, but he puts a hand on her arm. The shock of it more than the grip is what causes her to stop, to hesitate.

"Well you're certainly the not the lass I remember. The Elsie Hughes I remember wouldn't glide over here so stiff and formal, so _English._ She had a fire in her, that one. And I do remember the fire, that I do." And his hand travels up her arm.

The restraint that she's developed (so hard won) evaporates in an instant. She jerks her arm out of his grasp and slaps him, hard, across the face. He's stunned, he is, and before he can gather his wits, she begins.

"How dare you. How dare you." Her voice is rising, becoming shakier with each syllable. Her anger is a red flame that licks the feet of Andrew Drummond and makes him hop. "Charles Carson is a fine man, a good man. A sight better than the likes of you (and here she puts an uncomfortable, acid stress on the word). You've no good reason to go dredging up the past in such a sly, despicable way. You're a cruel man, Mr. Drummond; you've become a cruel man." Curiously, she finds herself choking back a sob. "I've only come to satisfy myself; you were after causing grief, Mr. Drummond, but you weren't to know about Charles Carson. It's clear you've never taken measure of a man like him." She hadn't known, she couldn't have known the cart pulled up just a few moments before, that Donal and Charles had walked up the path, come through the gate, had seen and heard most of the argument, that Donal had made to put himself between Elsie and Drummond, but Charles put a hand on his shoulder, held him back. Donal looks back, incredulous, to see a look of love and pride on Charles's face so open and honest that it embarrasses him that he's seen it. Charles shakes his head, whispers. "Let's let her finish it, then."

Elsie starts to walk away. "Hold on there, lass. I was only having a bit of fun. Besides, he seemed a mite too proud for a husband, if you ask me."

"Fortunately for you, no one did ask you, sir." There's no mistaking that voice, that smooth, elegant voice that captivated her almost from the start. "I've good reason to be proud of my wife. Very good reason." And he fixes Andrew Drummond with a such a look of contempt and pity that the man has to turn away. Charles smiles (and who can blame him? He's always been proud of her fiery Scots temper, even those rare times it was directed at him) and turns to Elsie, makes a slight bow. "Mr. Brodie and I came in the cart, thought we might escort you home. Mrs. Carson, are you ready?"

"I am indeed, Mr. Carson." And she takes the arm he's offered her, smiles up at him, and in spite of the nausea, the splitting head, the lingering after-effects of all that alcohol, he feels better than he has in years. He turns, can't resist a parting shot to this poor devil of a loser.

"We'll take our leave, then, Mr. Drummond. I don't expect we'll be seeing you again. Please give our kindest regards to your wife." And they walk towards the cart, coolly, gracefully. Charles takes a moment to help her into the cart with small, elegant movements, settles her in, then sits as Donal readies the horse to make the short drive back to the farm.


	39. Chapter 39

They are finally, blessedly alone. The remainder of the day had been pleasant, routine, but with a light frisson of heightened awareness between them. They've had no opportunity to talk privately during the day. Elsie had seen what the effort of fetching her at the neighbors had cost him, and she had sent him straight to bed when they returned home. She had known how truly awful he felt when he didn't even protest. While Charles slept, she spent her afternoon chatting companionably with Moira and tending to her great-nephew Donnie. He was a lovely little lad and Elsie spared another painful thought, a tender what if. _What if they had pursued this spark years ago? What if they had married, had at least one child_? A feeling of almost delicious pain seizes her heart. _But we didn't_, she thinks firmly. _We didn't. We each made the same choice, the choice to stay in service, to ignore our personal feelings for so many long years. But,_ (and her spine stiffens automatically) _we should be grateful that we even get this. It won't last forever. We have only a few years together, a very few, really. To waste even a fraction of that time playing at what ifs is wrong, blasphemous._ She smiles at the little lad as he reaches up for her hand, wants to show her another of his treasures, his secret places, and she banishes, for now (for always she hopes) those myriad regrets that she cannot change and walks along in delight wherever her young nephew deigns to take her.

*CE*

Moira outdid herself preparing a grand farewell feast for Charles and Elsie. Elsie hovered round the edges, helping where she could, picking up tips for her own cookery (which, she freely admits, is not very good, although Charles is too kind to admit it. He cheerfully eats whatever she puts in front of him, no matter how dismal).

Charles has been up for an hour, possibly two, going round the farm with Donal. He never thought to have a brother-in-law; as an only child, then much, much later as head of his own unusual household, he had always been solitary, alone. Elsie was really the only person he could have a chat with, the only person who was permitted to view even a glimpse of the real Charles. He'd had friends, of course. Not many in the village; only one really. He could count Mr. Bates as a friend, although he would never dream of confiding in the younger man. Anna is most like a daughter to him, but she is really more Elsie's than his. Elsie had often accused him of worshiping Lady Mary, but it was never worship, nor blind love. It was simply loyalty to the house (and he can see Elsie rolling her eyes); perhaps not. He does have a soft spot for Lady Mary; he would even if the only thing she'd done for him was bring Elsie into his life. He has some general acquaintance in London; fellows he writes to occasionally. They were certainly surprised to hear of his retirement and subsequent marriage. They'd heard him speak of Mrs. Hughes, of course, and if any of them shared a wink and a knowing smile regarding the news, they'd very gallantly not shared it with him. No, it was obvious when he reviewed the very small catalogue of his friends that he has very few real friends. But, he brightens, he can now add Donal to that list. He is surprised by how comfortable he feels with the man, how naturally they have befriended one another. Donal understands what it's like to be married to one of the Hughes sisters, and the thought makes Charles smile. Yes, this has been a wonderful visit, in spite of last night's embarrassments and this morning's events. He is not angry with Elsie, far from it. He is proud, so proud that she would be angry on his behalf, that she would go alone to face a spectre from her past, one that had been a pleasant, kind memory, but had twisted in the passing years. He knows that Donal does not understand it, does not understand Charles' refusal to interfere, but then Donal has never seen Elsie independent, fierce, free. He's not seen her protect herself time and again from a host of would-be assailants. If anything, and he chuckles lightly, if anything, it was that odious man who needed protection from her. But thoughts of Andrew Drummond are sobering, and there are things the two of them need to discuss. He feels it between them. He is (again, always) looking forward to bedtime, curling together in that ridiculously small bed and there in the close warm dark he can tell her everything.

*CE*

Dinner is a festive affair, with people talking over one another, laughing, passing this plate and that, just the kind of informal affair that Carson the butler would have shuddered at presiding over mere months ago. But Charles was delighted to observe, though he still felt shy of participating, happy instead to watch Els and her sister spar over some hapless bit of nonsense, to hear Tavey make sly references to some of the most notorious aspects of their visit, to meet Donal's eye across the table and find he can interpret those looks precisely. He has a family now, a true, honest family, something he'd never admitted needing, but finds humbly satisfying. His heart is full for each of them and he's so grateful, so thankful that he's been allowed to share in their obvious joy in Elsie and (he must admit it if he's being scrupulously honest) in him as well.

But all too soon the evening is over, the remnants of dinner tidied up and then to bed early because they must be at the station by 9. But he can't be too sorry, because now he can escort Elsie to their small dark room, he can help undress her, wheedle with her, cajole her into wearing his pajama top rather than her own rather severe nightgown (now that he's seen it, now that he's felt more of her skin against him during the night, he finds he cannot stop thinking about it, desires nothing more than the feel of her bare legs against him). There will be time, then, time to talk, to lay these final ghosts to rest.


	40. Chapter 40

She's beside him at last, his arm draped over her protectively (possessively; now that he has staked his claim to her, he takes every opportunity to protect that boundary) and her body molded to his. She relishes the warmth, hugs herself in even closer to him, as she's agreed to his request (_his foolish request_, she thinks, and yet she can't say no to him, in spite of feeling ridiculous, undressed even, but when has she ever been able to say no to him since this thing bloomed between them?) and is wearing his pajama top. She is shy, reluctant; the inappropriate nightwear doesn't help the situation. There is a tension between them, not uncomfortable, certainly not angry, perhaps more a hesitation, as though each has something to say, but is waiting for a more opportune moment. There won't be one, of course. The warm dark, she has discovered, is the best time to talk of difficult things between them. She doesn't have to look him in the eye in the dark, and although she never had trouble with that before, now sometimes she falters, particularly when she must speak of her feelings. She would be easier talking to him at home, where they are completely private and alone. It could wait, she suppose; yes, it could wait until they get home, but she's afraid to let this silence grow between them, afraid if she doesn't speak now, she never will, and she really must apologize-

"What are you thinking, Els? Out with it," he says gently. They are so close she can feel it rumbling through her chest. "You're stiff as a board my girl."

His voice is so tender and loving that that alone almost undoes her; the secret dark part of her sometimes doubts the depth of his love for her, sometimes whispers that another woman has written her name across his heart and that he has settled for her, for this, but he proves to her again and again in word and deed how true and loving he is. How much _hers_ he is. _You know that_, she thinks impatiently._ You already know he is to be trusted_. "I was thinking," she hesitates, "I've been thinking of last night and this morning."

"Yes, well," he murmurs. Now he is the one who tightens. "I've been meaning to talk with you about that. I wanted," and he takes a deep breath, blows it out and the force of it disturbs the small loose curls near her ear. "I want to apologize, Els. You tried to warn me and I didn't listen-" He cannot finish because Elsie flips to face him (and he spares a proud thought that the bed doesn't squeak a bit with the new slats), a fierce look on her face.

"Charles Carson," she hisses, "you've nothing to apologize for. It was a nasty trick he played on you. A very nasty trick and" and the tears threaten to fall. "Had I known, had I any idea that you would encounter him, that he would-" and despite her best efforts, those treacherous tears fall.

Charles takes a deep breath, wipes away as many of the shining tears as he can with the pad of his thumb. "Ah, love. I understand. I understand all too well." His smile is thin, melancholy.

"Understand what? What do you understand?" Her heart clenches with fear and she grabs his hand in hers.

"I admit I was far gone last night, but I do remember some of what happened. Some." He sighs deeply, then continues. "I understand I was a figure of fun," and here she draws herself up, ready to defend him fiercely, but he quiets her with a gesture. "I was, love, but it was more than that. It was anger, really. Jealous anger." There, he said it. He feels like a fool. A boorish man of the type Andrew Drummond turned out to be is worth none of his time and yet, because of Elsie, he must bring up that unpleasantness, must root it out. He doesn't want to carry this home with them. He'd thought it was finished this morning, but clearly the woman has been worrying herself over it. And, truth be told, it had bothered him as well. A small, hateful voice reminds him that he's seen worse instances of her temper.

"Jealous?" Elsie scoffs. She simply can't believe it. It's been an age, donkey's years since she'd laid eyes on that man. "I can't believe it."

"He wanted me to know, Els," and the nickname slips off his tongue. "He wanted me to know…about the past," he finishes delicately. He understood jealousy, oh yes indeed. He also understood crude, loutish behavior. Even now the image of that man's hand on Elsie's arm squeezed his temples and caused his hands to tingle with anger and yet he had allowed her to finish it, known she would, known she had to. For her and for them.

Her face is lowered now, her chin tucked nearly into her chest. He realizes, belatedly, that she is embarrassed; no, more than that. She is ashamed, and his heart lurches painfully. "Elsie," he says gently. "Elsie, look at me." He strokes her cheek with his finger. "Will you no' look at me, lass?" And his dreadful Scottish accent shocks her into looking up at him, laughing shakily. "That bad, eh?" And he grins, such a lovely, painful sight.

She bites her lip, turns her head toward the opposite wall. "It's just that…that-"

"You don't have to say it, Els. You don't have to say anymore. We never have to speak of him again."

"That's just it," she says in frustration. "We do have to speak of him, at least long enough to rid ourselves of him once and for all. I'm shamed by his behavior. I went over there this morning to…to…"

"Peel the skin off him?"

Elsie cuts her eyes at him, smiles in spite of herself. "I suppose so," she says demurely. "But the strange thing is, when I finally got over there, I didn't…I couldn't-" The tears threaten again; gods damn that man. It's not as if she's crying over _him,_ the sodding bugger.

"From what I saw, you did a fine job, woman. That slap alone was worth a thousand words."

Elsie looks up, shocked. "You saw that?"

"I did indeed. I'll wager I saw most of your encounter with Mr. Drummond (and he says his name with such exquisite distaste) and I was, as I said, very proud. Very proud of you, Mrs. Carson." And he kisses her lightly on the lips.

"Well I'm not very proud of myself, Charles. He deserved more of a tongue lashing than I gave him and that's a fact. He got the better of me, though I don't know why." She gives him a pained, quizzical look. "I wanted to tell him so much. I wanted him to know what a fine person you are, one who can't be sullied in spite of his tricks. I wanted to tell him , oh I don't know! I wanted to tell him how it was between us, but it's hard enough for me to talk about that with you, much less that bamstick!"

"Elsie, I'm not sure what you just called that man, (and she opens her mouth to tell him, but he holds up a hand) and I'm not sure I want to. You were marvelous this morning. Donal was ready to get between the two of you, but I held him back. I knew you could finish him and you did. I'm more than proud, love. And what you said about me, us. Well, I'll never forget it. Not as long as I live." And he kisses her again and again, soft, tender kisses that soothe and settle her.

She kisses him one final time, then turns and spoons against him. "Good night, mo ghradh. I love you."

"I love you, Els." He waits until her breathing is more regular, then whispers in her ear. "You're sure you don't want to tell me how it is between us?"

She nudges him sleepily. "The ego, Mr. Carson, the ego. I'll tell you tomorrow. When we're home." And she sighs a deep, contented sigh.

Charles smiles in the dark, burrows in more closely to his wife, his heart and soothes himself to sleep with visions of tomorrow.


	41. Chapter 41

**A/N: This is for ClassicVintageWithATwist.**

Charles sniffed experimentally. Lavender. Definitely lavender. He can't imagine what he's done to deserve such treatment from his wife, but he is thankful. As soon as they'd arrived home from the train, she had prepared a light supper, which they'd eaten together, Elsie's knee resting quite companionably against his leg. Then she informed him that she would draw him a bath directly after supper.

"You must be tired, Charles, from the journey. It would be nice to wash a bit of the travel off you, wouldn't it?" in that way she had, that way of asking a question without requiring an answer. "I've already started the water. I'll call you when it's ready." And that's how he ended up soaking in a steaming bath scented with lavender. Instead of the harsh electric light, Elsie had lit a few candles. That was a lovely thought. He leaned back in the water, his neck resting comfortably against the rim. It had been a tiring day; the journey was long and bittersweet. They'd both looked forward to returning to their routine, yet they were both curiously reluctant to leave Scotland. It had become home for them both.

Moira had hugged Elsie goodbye fiercely, then turned to hug Charles and give him a sisterly kiss on the cheek. Moira packed them a lovely basket for the train: biscuits, preserves, even an apple tart for Charles' sweet tooth, and she pressed it into his hands without a word. He stepped back to give Elsie room to say her goodbyes. He watched her swallow hard as she kissed Tavey and Janet, then knelt down to hug and kiss little Donnie. He could see unshed tears gathering at the corners of her eyes as she rose; he had taken her elbow and she almost sagged into him with relief. It was so difficult to say goodbye. Elsie had hugged and kissed Donal goodbye at the station; he'd shaken hands with the taciturn man he'd come to regard as his brother.

The journey itself was tiresome; the train was crowded, and they'd had to share a compartment with others, much to Charles' dismay. He discovered that he was very eager for time alone with his wife. Very eager indeed. He could only hope this bath would be the precursor to other activities.

He let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes. He might have drifted off, but only for a moment; the water was still warm. He had that curious sensation that he wasn't alone. His eyes flew open and he saw Elsie standing before him, her hands on the ties of her dressing gown.

"Would you care for some company?"

He jolted up, nearly sloshing water over the sides of the tub. His mouth was ridiculously dry and, quite possibly, acting as a fly trap. He tried to croak a reply.

"Only I thought," she began, clearly flustered, "only it seemed you wanted, that is, you seemed as if you, but of course I can-I'll just" and she makes to leave. Oh gods he can't let her leave. He starts to rise, but fumbles back down into the water. He doesn't want her to see him, well, he doesn't want to expose himself to her like that. It wouldn't be proper. _Gods damn it, man, just say something!_

"Yes," he croaks. "Yes, I would, that is, if you want, I-" he sighs in exasperation. "Yes. Yes, please." And he scoots back in the bath so she can see that there is plenty of room. She smiles that lovely sideways smile and peers down at him through lowered eyelids. She takes a deep breath and unties the dressing gown, letting it fall to the floor.

*CE*

He's experienced moments like these before, moments where time seems to stop, almost as if the world is holding its breath. He felt it first as he waited for her answer to his proposal of marriage. On occasion, he'd felt it happen when he was making love with her, those times when the reality of her beneath him was at once exquisitely familiar and shockingly new and they moved in perfect synchronicity. Now is another of those times. She is standing in front of him, the candlelight wavering against her hair and skin, lighting this part of her, then another. He feels his mouth is in the shape of a perfect O, but he is powerless to do anything about it. He can only wait, suspended, until she breaks this spell and weaves another by stepping into the water.

*CE*

Standing in front of Charles (her man) naked as a bairn, well and who would blame her for taking a wee dram of whisky to fortify herself? She'd been fairly confident that he wouldn't reject her; after all, he had nearly tugged her into the bath with him at Moira's. Of course he'd had several wee drams that night, but still. It must have been in his mind for him to act on it then. She'd thought of little else since then; the desire to surprise him, to please him, by doing something unusual (at least she thought it unusual. Perhaps other married couples? But she dismisses that thought.), something that he clearly wanted but was too polite (too afraid) to ask of her. This, like their experiment the other night, gives her a curious sensation of power. She feels young and beautiful again, though she realizes this is foolish in the extreme. But judging by the look on his face he's more than pleased by what he sees. It's that look of love and awe (and desire) that gives her the confidence to loosen the robe, let it fall, to step into the tub with him. She hears his sharp intake of breath, almost as he does (invariably) when he enters her, that warm breath in her ear, the sound of desire and fulfillment.

She lowers herself into the water, cursing the sound of her knees creaking as she settles herself in. It's a bit of a tight squeeze; _this tub wasn't really meant for two and my man is a strapping one_, she thinks proudly.

"And what are we grinning about, Mrs. Carson?" Charles has recovered his power of speech and he lets the words rumble out in a smoky velvet tone (his wife confided to him that she thrilled to the sound of his voice).

She puts a tentative hand to her face; she hadn't realized she was smiling so broadly. "Perhaps I'm just happy to be home alone with my man. It's been a long while since we could be" and here she drops her voice (he confided to her that the sultry lilt of her voice delighted him) "alone."

Now it's Charles' turn to smile, to grin wickedly. "And what should we do, my dear, now that we are alone?"

"Anything we like, my man. Anything we like." And she leans forward to kiss him.


	42. Chapter 42

**A/N: I don't own these lovely, wonderful, life-ruining characters and no copyright infringement is intended. I write for pleasure: theirs and mine... Soon I will be drawing this story to its natural conclusion: infinite happy times behind closed doors. Thank you so much for all of the reviews and encouragement. It means so much.**

Charles has come to enjoy their teasing banter. He likes that Elsie is more comfortable with the physical aspect of their marriage. He'll never forget (he could never forget) that it was she who initiated their first attempt at lovemaking. It was so tender and hesitant, so joyous, and yet he had been afraid, then (and even sometimes now) of hurting her, of frightening her with his desire. He is also embarrassed (ashamed, really) of his wants and desires. He imagines doing all sorts of things with his wife, improper things, shocking things, things he'd only ever heard about in the stables or during his brief time on the stage. He had thought those things repelled him, but now he has a curious fascination for them. Elsie is still shy of him (perhaps even of herself and this is a sobering thought that he tucks away for later) and he will not risk this tender thread between them by introducing anything lewd (or French,_ one and the same_, he thinks darkly) into their marriage bed. It's because what they have is clean, almost holy (and if anything of the body can be holy it is this communion they share). They waited, they were patient, above reproach and now they've been rewarded. And as he looks at his wife, his Els, her face flushed from the heat of the water (and perhaps something else as well) and a curious, almost hungry look in her eyes, he thinks they've been very patient indeed.

"I could," she begins hesitantly, "I could help you wash up a bit Charles," and she reaches for the bit of cloth and soap.

He clears his throat and wills himself to speak normally. He may not be a man of the world, but he hadn't lived in a sack, for heaven's sake. He has some experience with women, and he has been married now for nearly four months. He had given considerable thought to the physical side of his relationship with Elsie in the short weeks before their marriage, but in those fantasies (and he sees now that they were fantasies; dreams that went up in flames when compared against the reality of his wife and their mutual desire) he was the patient instructor and she the willing, albeit demure, pupil. He recognizes now how foolish, how ridiculous those fantasies were. He'd had no idea of her, not really. He had known only a part of her, only the part that she had chosen to reveal to him. She had a wholly separate personality hidden beneath the layers of propriety and servitude. He should have known it, really. Hadn't he seen the difference between her upstairs persona and the downstairs reality of her? How carefully she modulated the tone of her voice when speaking with her Ladyship or the Dowager? How she had schooled her features into a semblance of placid calm when he knew, absolutely, that she was boiling inside? How arrogant to think that she hadn't hidden anything from him all those years. It saddens him to think of it, to think of the "closeness" that he had accepted between them for so long. "Well, yes, if you like." She smiles at him shyly as she soaps the rag. He tries to look anywhere but her breasts, her legs, tries to shift himself to hide his growing arousal. They are so close; the tub wasn't really meant for two people and he's easily two of her, probably more.

She scrubs his shoulders and neck, tentatively at first, then with firmer strokes. She moves to his chest and scrubs in large, smooth circles, careful to avoid the tender spots she's learned about. She is biting her bottom lip in that way she has, that way that drives him mad with desire now, because now he knows how it feels to kiss that lip, to run his tongue across it. He wants to kiss her, but he wants her to continue soaping and stroking his shoulders, his chest. She moves her hands to his abdomen and he inhales sharply. She hesitates for a moment, then continues to scrub his body with hard, firm strokes. He struggles not to groan, not to move toward her. He senses that this is something she wants to do for him, something he must accept from her, a sort of tribute, perhaps. Well, he could certainly return the favor another time and in another way, perhaps. He settles back, relaxes as much as he can into the water, and lets her carry on.

*CE*

In spite of the fortifying shot of whisky and Charles' obvious pleasure, she feels a fool, scrubbing away at him as though he's one of the hall floors. She tries to slow herself down, tries to give pleasure to him through this and tries to take pleasure from it herself. She refuses to make eye contact with him but risks a glance when she feels him relax under her hands. His eyes are closed and a strange, fey smile plays about his lips. She smiles and takes a moment to look at him. She has seen him before, of course she has, but she's never felt comfortable looking at him, looking at all of him. His broad expanse of chest, covered in thick wiry hair, his strong arms and forearms, his hands, large and thick, and yet unexpectedly gentle. She takes a furtive glance further down; she can see that he is responding to her attentions, that he is interested. A sudden desire to hold him, to stroke him takes hold of her and though she tries to ignore it, tries to concentrate merely on washing the dust and grime of travel from his body, her thoughts and her eyes continue to drift. She has touched him before, lightly, experimentally, and she wonders what might happen if she were to grasp hold of him right now. Would he be pleased? Shocked? _Come on, Els. You're already in the tub with the man, for heaven's sake! Seems you can do as you like_. And she reaches out for him.

*CE*

Later, much later when she is asleep in his arms in their bed, after they've made love (and the slats have been determined adequate) and, he notes with satisfaction, he has persuaded her to leave off the nightgown, he thinks of that moment in the tub. He'd settled himself back, pretending to relax for her sake (he'd known, instinctively, from the first, that he could not watch her, could not allow her to know he was watching her), enjoying the feeling of her rubbing soap into his skin, until the moment she touched him. He jerked suddenly, splashed water over the sides of the tub, and his eyes had flown open. She looked at him, uncertainty written across her face, her teeth worrying that bottom lip. He hadn't known what he should do. He knew what he wanted to do, but he'd sworn to himself he would not frighten her, would allow her to establish the boundaries of their physical relationship. He'd shown her a few things, indeed, but there was a line he'd drawn for himself, and he hadn't crossed it yet. He waited, holding his breath, to see what she might do next.

"Is this," she asked, hesitatingly, awkwardly, "is this alright?"

He nods, unable to speak. She'd held him firmly, a bit too firmly, but not uncomfortably so. He spasmed again in delight, in agitation and he stifled a groan of pleasure.

"Only I want to please you," she had said, in a halting, low voice. "I want to do for you as you've done for me."

And then he'd found his voice at last. "Oh my dear darling girl. Oh my love." His voice was weak, cracked. Something was breaking inside, another wall, perhaps. "You cannot know how much you do please me."

And he'd reached for her and she'd slithered up his body and somehow, miraculously, they'd made it out of the tub and down the hall into their bedroom. He hadn't let go of her, hadn't released her, kissed her as often as he could while still keeping an eye out for corners, doors. They'd left the bathwater, their clothes, the towels, left it all for another time. He felt so young, so strong; she made him feel strong and powerful. He pressed her down into the bedclothes and she pressed a hand against his shoulder, wordlessly asking him to turn over, to lie down on his back, and he complied, happily so.

*CE*

And now they are here again, tangled together in a silent happy heap, her sleeping soundly and he brushing light circles across her shoulder, her back. All that's missing is a disruptive knock at the door. He chuckles lightly to himself. This whole journey could be described as a disruptive knock at his door. But he's glad, more than glad, that he answered the call.


	43. Chapter 43

A/N: Thank you so much for all the wonderful reviews, favorites, PMs. I have enjoyed writing this story so much and I've been reluctant to let it go, hence the delay between this chapter and the former. I've begun working on a modern AU Chelsie story, but we are moving in early July (just around the corner, really, but we have accumulated so. much. stuff. ugh.), so I won't promise a timeline on it. Thanks for everything, and I hope that some measure of this and all the wonderful Chelsie fics out there make it into Series 4!

Epilogue

"Els, have you seen my" but his voice dies away as he sees Lady Mary sitting on the sofa opposite his wife. "Oh," he mumbles, drawing himself up, with surprising difficulty, into his role as butler of Downton Abbey. "Lady Mary, I didn't realize you were here," he says formally, coldly. "It's very good of you to call. If you'll just excuse me for-" but Lady Mary cuts right across him.

"No need, Carson," she shakes her head irritably, "Mr. Carson, no need at all. I just stopped by on my way to the village. I've had a lovely chat with Mrs. Carson," and here she inclines her head towards Elsie elegantly, economically, "and I really must be going. I've several things to tend to this morning." Charles' eyebrows, if possible, raise nearly to his hairline, but he continues to stand stiffly, looking coldly elegant in spite of wearing his vest and pants and holding his shirt in one hand. She stands, as does Elsie, who accepts Lady Mary's proffered hand and walks with her to the door. Lady Mary says something to her in a low, hushed tone and Elsie nods quickly, offers polite thanks and closes the door after her. She takes a deep breath before she turns around.

"Well?" he hisses. "And when were you going to tell me Lady Mary was here? Would you have let me walk out here in my undershorts?" And the pitch of his voice rises on the last word.

"I'm sorry, Charles, I truly am. I never expected anyone this early, and I certainly never expected Lady Mary to pay us a visit. I am sorry, love." And she is, she is sorry, truly, but she's also the tiniest bit angry. The effect that girl has on him. It's always irritated her and the fact that she can wrought such a change in him in their own home has her feeling mutinous.

"I dunno why you think she wouldn't pay us a visit. We had a good working relationship for many, many years. We're a part, albeit a small part, of the Family."

Elsie struggles mightily against rolling her eyes. She doesn't want to argue with him, certainly not about her, but she stops herself in mid-tirade. She might have been an uppity minx (_and she most certainly was_, she thinks darkly), but now she is a troubled young widow, a lost soul with a fatherless son and Elsie should (and does) have pity for her. But even so, Charles' attitude towards his precious Lady Mary has twitted her and she fixes him with a rather arch look.

"And what do you mean by that look, might I ask?"

"You might."

"Well?"

"Well what? You've no right to be ordering me about, Mr. Carson."

"Whatever has gotten into you? Lady Mary pays us an unexpected social call, I end up coming into the room (and here his voice lowers; it's never been difficult for Elsie to imagine him on the stage) _half dressed_. Whatever could she be thinking? No wonder she left out of here in such a rush. And what did she say to you as she was leaving?"

"Whatever has gotten into you? And she said nothing of consequence," Elsie says grudgingly.

"Whatever it was, I'm sure it was of consequence," he says and the temper that Elsie has been struggling to contain boils over.

"She is not our family, Charles. They are not our family. We are a family. I am your family."

Charles looks at her in shock, but a gradual understanding dawns. _My god, I love this woman_. "You're jealous," he says calmly.

"Jealous?" she scoffs. "I never. I just cannot abide the way you change so completely in her presence. It's been months-" He walks towards her, tossing his shirt lightly on the back of the sofa.

"You're jealous," he repeats in that same maddeningly calm tone, and grasps her shoulders.

"Of all the ridic-" and he kisses her in mid-sentence before she can complete her thought, before she can carry her argument further. He kisses her so that he can make her understand that she's nothing to be jealous of, not anymore, that his heart is more her own than his, that he loves her, that he has always loved her. His hands slide down to cup her bottom. She giggles and he smiles against her lips. She pulls back, looks accusingly at him. "I'm not jealous, you know," she says calmly and kisses him again, sliding her arms around his neck.

*CE*

Lady Mary had instructed her driver to drop her at the cottage, then proceed onto the village. The walk would do her good. She'd been curious, very curious, to visit them in their cottage. Of course she'd seen them at church, on occasion in the village, and while she could see that they appeared to be happy, it wasn't the same as observing them in their own home. She'd been patient, given them time to adjust to their life together, then decided to pay a visit after their return from Scotland. She'd been disappointed (a little) not to be received by Carson; Mrs. Hughes, _Carson,_ she corrects herself irritably, had always been pleasant, but there had always been a slight undercurrent of tension between them. No, she could never feel entirely comfortable around her. She knew the woman could be kind, deeply kind; she had only to think of Ethel's situation to know that and of course there had been other instances. And Sybil had loved her; Sybil who had always been attracted to the truest, strongest hearts of the house. But she had always gravitated to Carson, to the one person whose unwavering loyalty had shored her up during the worst times of her life. She had wanted to repay that loyalty in some very tangible way, so she watched and waited, hoping to discover what he might want above all else, what he might be too stubbornly reluctant to reach for on his own. Her own brief happiness with Matthew had given her new eyes, so to speak. It was all very ridiculous, this, but instead of being so completely self-absorbed that she was unable to notice anyone else, she became almost hyper-aware of those around her. The sly looks her mother gave her father, the obvious delight Sybil and Tom took in each other, even Edith's disastrous relationship with Sir Anthony had a certain touching charm to it. But when she looked at Carson, watched him watch her, she had known as surely and completely as she'd ever known anything. He loved her, quietly, tentatively, and Mary had promised herself she would do whatever was in her power to make him happy. Of course, life interferes with even the noblest intentions, and the difficulties associated with starting a family, not to mention her subsequent confinement and the birth of her child had occupied nearly all of her thoughts. But when Matthew, and here she stops herself. At any rate, she had been able to chivvy Carson into moving forward. The man was so delightfully stubborn, although she could spare a kind thought for Mrs. Hughes, who would have to endure that stubbornness, but she'd always been the only one who could manage him, so perhaps her kind thoughts here were wasted. She smiles a bit, smiles to think of Carson being managed by his beloved Mrs. Hughes. And she knew that Mrs. Hughes _(Carson!)_ was beloved; she had only to hear his voice (he called her Els; if Sybil were here they would both be rolling about the floor laughing over it) and see just a glimpse of real feeling on his face before he disappeared into that awful dignified façade. She stops abruptly, turns back to the cottage. She will see him for herself, now; she will talk with him. She had scuttled away (so completely unlike her) on seeing Carson in his undershirt (and another giggle threatens), but now she would see him. He's had time, certainly, to put the rest of his clothes on this morning.

*CE*

She walks down the path to the small cottage the Carsons share and raises her hand to knock. She listens for a moment; is that laughter? No, giggling, more like. It's dreadfully rude to eavesdrop, but she finds she can't help herself. Their voices are low, but she finds she can make out some of their conversation.

"Charles, we can't. Not now. I have to be at choir practice in an hour."

"You flatter me, love. It may be more accurate to say twenty minutes?" Much muffled laughter, and, is that the sound of kissing? Mary knows she should leave, knows this is terribly wrong, and yet her feet are rooted to the spot. Suddenly, there is a noise, almost as though a small table has been pushed across a stone floor. More laughter, and she hears Mrs. Carson's voice again.

"Careful, love. We'd not want to break anything else." Now Mary's eyebrows raise nearly to her hairline and she finds that she is struggling against an almost hysterical bout of laughter. She's stood on the front step so long now that she must knock. Surely at least one of the neighbors has seen her here. She wills herself to rap sharply against the door. Silence. Then, the unmistakable sound of Carson's voice.

"Whatever anyone's after can wait, Mrs. Carson. All of it can wait."

And Lady Mary turns and makes her way towards the village, satisfied beyond measure that her beloved friend is happy.

The End!


End file.
